


Worth

by ToriCeratops



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gentle Sex, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Post 1x10, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Self-Doubt, technically canon compliant until January 20th
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/pseuds/ToriCeratops
Summary: When Malcolm wakes in the hospital after his encounter with Watkins, he isn't sure of anything any more.  The road he and Gil walk down in the aftermath is one he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to turn away from.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 47
Kudos: 171





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

> worth / wɜrθ / n. _usefulness or importance, as to the world, for a purpose, or to a person_

awake / əˈweɪk / adj. vigilant, alert:

Death is a welcome embrace.

Warmer than he’d expected.

Not that he’d been expecting anything really, or thought about it at length… recently. Maybe a few times a year, or well, a month, over the course of his life. He had always known there would be blackness, a void. He just hadn’t expected to be aware of it.

Only…

A soft, steady beeping noise breaks through the bleak nothingness. Malcolm thinks  _ maybe  _ he is not as deceased as he had initially surmised. 

The smells are next. Antiseptic. Bleach. Cheap, shitty bedding. Okay, that’s not a smell, but it is the next interruption and it comes right before the metric shit ton of narcotics he notices is flowing through his veins. It’s enough he can tell it’s there which means he is really, seriously doped up. 

So not dead. Just really damn close.

Another sensation tickles at his awareness and when he attempts to turn toward the voices the beeping increases in frequency. He is vaguely aware that it’s from the panic setting in at not being able to move or fully wake up. Maybe if he tries harder, concentrates more. He needs to do something else. Move his hand, a toe.

His eyes! If he can just open his eyes! Or even his mouth, just say something, anything.

A hand grips one of his while another runs softly through his hair. But it is a familiar voice that cuts through the haze of panic.

“Bright. Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital and you’re safe.” Gil gives his hand a squeeze. “Malcolm” His voice is softer - closer. “I got you. You’re safe.”

He takes a long, deep breath which manages to slow down everything around him long enough to take stock again. 

He’s alive. 

He’s in pain, but alive.

He’s in the hospital - alive. 

The sheets are itchy but that means he can feel them. Gil has a firm grip on his hand, callused skin a stark contrast to the smoothness of his own. And despite Malcolm’s panic, Gil sounds exceptionally relieved.

The fact that he can register all of these things means that - more important than being alive - he is fucking  _ awake.  _

With all the strength he can muster, Malcolm squeezes Gil’s hand, the effort drawing a groan from deeper in his chest.

“Oh, thank god.”

When he tries to speak all that comes out is more groaning but the effort jolts him enough he’s finally able to open his eyes. Gil’s soft gaze is the first thing that comes into focus. It opens a floodgate of memories and long-buried dreams, fighting over the pain and fogginess of right now. But it’s all too much and he looks away, pulling in a deep gasp and desperate to ignore how his eyes are already watering.

“Wh… what….” His voice sounds and feels like sandpaper.

Extra coarse.

“Shh.” Gil’s hands haven’t left their two points of connection. For the first time since becoming aware he notices the tremor in his friend’s hand. “I’ll catch you up on everything. I promise. Just try and relax and I’ll get you some water.” He can feel the reluctance when Gil pulls away, tries not to focus on it. Tells himself he is imagining it.

Things move in a blur after that. There’s the crisp, cool slide of water down his throat, the pinch and burn of doctors and nurses checking his vitals and changing doses on all the lines he’s hooked up to. Apparently, he had a lot of bruising and internal blood loss in addition to the - you know - stab wound that actually almost killed him.

Makes sense, given the beating he had taken being the last thing he is currently able to remember.

He must pass out again because the next thing he knows the room is empty except for Gil, sitting beneath the window and staring out at the rain as it pours down in sheets. He looks lost, smaller than he has ever seen him.

Everything is wrong with this whole thing, including…

“I didn’t dream.” His voice is still rough, but better than before.

Gil bites at his lips, shuts his eyes. “You have enough sedative in you to knock out an entire stable of horses. You shouldn’t even be awake right now. They said it would be another twenty-four hours at least.” The pain in his words is heavy enough to make Malcolm’s chest hurt. “The anesthesiologist could barely keep you under during the surgery and you -” He pauses to take a shaky breath. “You flatlined twice.” He won’t make eye contact even after he opens his eyes, the pinch in his brows and hunch of his shoulders projecting the guilt and fear he feels. “So yeah, not surprised you skipped out on the dreams after all that.”

“Apparently I’m just too stubborn in everything I do.” Malcolm would shrug if he could think clearly enough to move and he speaks slowly, careful of his voice. “Work, friends, sleep… death.”

He tries for a smirk though, but Gil flinches. “Don’t. Please don’t joke about that.”

“Gil, come on. I’m fine. Like, 90% even.”

At that Gil finally stands and crosses the room, placing a shaking hand over Malcolm’s heart. There’s laughter on his lips, but it’s dark and humorless. “You’re going to have to keep lowering those numbers if you want me to believe you again.”

With a lot of effort, Malcolm moves his own hand to cover Gil’s, realizing that both of them are trembling. “Tell me what happened.”

If it were anyone else he knows he would get platitudes or told it wasn’t important, that it could wait. But they’ve known each other for twenty years. Gil reads him like a book and always seems to know what he needs.

“You went to Watkins’ place with Shannon. You remember?”

That much he does. What’s fuzzy is all the details after he had been caught, after the struggle and blacking out in the shed. He had apparently been there just under four hours before the team had shown up. John, the bastard, got away and Gil had found Malcolm near death. Gil struggles through the ending. His voice gets shaky and he won’t look him in the eyes again. When he finally seems finished and still visibly upset Malcolm squeezes his hand.

“Hey. Look at me.” Though it takes him several breaths, Gil eventually does. “I’m okay. I’m alive and I’m going to be okay. We know exactly who he is now and we can catch him. We’ll find him again.”

For a second he thinks maybe he got through but Gil’s tight smile vanishes in another flash of guilt. 

“Bright- Malcolm. Listen, I -”

The door to his room swings open, cutting him off. Though he can’t see at first, he instantly knows who it is. “In the ICU, sedated from here to eternity, and still can’t do as he’s told and get some damned sleep.”

Without taking his eyes off Gil and hoping beyond hope that he gets across his silent command of ‘this isn’t over’ Malcolm sighs. “Hello, Mother. So happy you’re glad I survived a near-death experience.”

When she gets to the bed - however - Malcolm wishes he could take back his words. There are tear streaks running through her normally flawless makeup and deep, red puffiness under her eyes she wouldn’t be caught dead with in public. 

“I’m sorry,” he says before she can break through her shaky breath and trembling lips to retort.

She seems to crumble into open tears, placing a feather-light touch over wherever she seems to think is safe on his body. As if he’s not really there if she can’t feel him. Her movements cause Gil to slip away, taking his own touch with him. Though the action isn’t surprising, he finds himself bereft at the loss, aching for that grounding connection to help keep him sane.

Well, as sane as he’s capable of anyway.

* * *

  
They keep him in the ICU for two more days. 

Given he is no longer considered to be at death’s door strict visiting hours are put back in place. Though he fades in and out a lot he is always aware enough when he has guests. And he always has guests. Every time the halls fill with scared and loving family and friends of all the patients on the ward his own door is darkened by first his mother - always his mother - and then at least one other person. Dani and JT both come at least once, his sister a few times. But more often than not, it is Gil on her heels. 

For once, he is not in a hurry to leave.

The pain helps.

As does the uncertainty of his current mental state.

There is a cocktail of drugs running through his veins and for the first time in probably a decade he wasn’t the mixologist. Until he can confidently state he knows what they’ve given him it is probably not the best idea to go straight back to his own regimen. There will probably be some detoxing going on and a re-acclimation period too. Fuck, his next few weeks are going to be hell.

Then there’s Gil.

While he is still in the ICU he is the best buffer of any of them between him and his mother.

Once he leaves the ICU and he can have visitors whenever he damn wants Gil is the only one who keeps him sane-ish. When his mind is too still and his demons have their foot in the door Gil shows up and quizzes him on old cases - mostly solved ones - to see if he can peg the ultimate guilty party. A couple of them were unsolved though the lieutenant doesn’t give that away verbally. No, that’s in the way he suddenly has to send a text shortly after they’re finished. His favorite is the thirty-minute argument that they had caught the wrong guy. Even when Gil points out all the evidence and that he was tried and found guilty by a jury of his peers Malcolm doesn’t back down.

“I’m telling you, he didn’t do it. If you’re telling me everything - and everything you’re telling me is true - then the profile absolutely does not fit and he didn’t do it. It wasn’t even a he. Your killer is a woman.”

Gil laughs and throws a wad of crumpled paper at Malcolm’s head. Malcolm’s willing to admit that the older man’s smile is quite beautiful and may, in fact, be the reason he’s goading him on a little. “Why can’t you admit, just once, that you’re wrong?” Gil asks.

They wind up tossing it back and forth a few times until Malcolm misses and it winds up on the floor. “One,” he starts, “I admit I am wrong all the time. Two. I’m not wrong this time. Finally, stubborn as an ass ‘til the bitter end, remember?”

Something he says makes the light in Gil’s eyes and his brilliant smile vanish. His gaze falls and lips pinch in a reflection of the fear Malcolm vaguely remembers from that first time in the ICU. “Don’t remind me. I don’t know whether to be glad or angry at that stubbornness.”

“They aren’t mutually exclusive in this case. You can be both for different reasons. Hell, it would be kind of hypocritical for me of all people to tell someone they shouldn’t feel a whole bunch of conflicting emotions all at once.” Kind of like how he feels around Gil a lot these days.

Gil pushes himself out of the chair and crosses the room to come to the side of the bed.

“So I can be angry at it when you ruffle every single feather at work but ecstatic when you’re just too stubborn to die?”

With a lot of effort, Malcolm shifts his legs to the side and pats the edge of the mattress, glad of the closeness when Gil doesn’t hesitate to sit.

“Let’s just focus on the good one for now, and the fact that we both know they won’t take me out that easily.” 

Gil’s gaze drops yet again and Malcolm decides it is time to get to the bottom of the guilt eating at his oldest friend.

“Why are you here?”

His head snaps up at the question.

“What?”

“Every night, most of the night. You’re here more reliably than my mother and almost as much- which is saying something.”

Malcolm, watching him closely, catches the ghost of a smile just on the edge of his lips, the way he blinks while staring down at his hands where he is fidgeting with his wedding ring. It isn’t his usual fidgeting though. Normally, when someone mentions Jackie or he spontaneously starts thinking about her he twists his band, spinning it over and over until his attention is pulled elsewhere. But this time, instead of twisting it he moves it up and down that section of his finger, almost letting it pass the knuckle each time.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Is it the guilt - whatever that’s about - keeping you here?” He almost doesn’t want the answer that comes after Gil’s tight smile, the one that shows he’s been caught. “Whatever it is I’m sure it’s not that -”

“You won’t forgive me.”

“I doubt that.”

Gil catches his gaze then, as if searching for the truth in that statement, that whatever he feels he shouldn’t be forgiven for won’t actually tear his world apart. Eventually, he steels himself, drawing himself up and his shoulders back, not looking away this time.

“I let him get away.”

A vice clenches around Malcolm’s gut and a ringing swims in his ears. 

That is not possible.

He couldn’t. He  _ couldn’t.  _ He had said they hadn’t been able to find him. That Dani and JT and a dozen uniforms had looked for three days.

“Wh - what?” He doesn’t feel betrayed so much as really fucking confused.

Gil licks his lips and begins. “I was the first on the scene. Dani and I. She called for backup and we split up. Dani found Shannon and Watkin’s grandmother while I looked for you. There was this underground shelter-like room with exits at either end like a long, extra-wide corridor. When I got there you were on the ground in a pool of blood and Watkins was at the other door. He smirked at me and I…” He trails off like he’s trying to gather the courage to finish his story, to put out in the open what he had done - what he had failed to do - but he can’t find the words.

Malcolm tries to remain neutral - to keep his features blank and avoid judgment before he has all of the facts. 

“You made a choice to-”

“There WAS no CHOICE!” Gil looks away a moment to take a deep, steadying breath after raising his voice then continues, quieter than before. “You were unconscious in a huge pool of blood. I had no idea how far out our back up was or where Dani was. And you know what, even if I had known, if I had Dani and JT both right on my heels I still would have gone straight to you first. I can’t…” He chokes up for a moment, then clears his throat. “I can’t lose you too.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. His immediate surge of anger that the bastard got away after being so close is banked steeply by the genuine pain he sees in the deep lines of his friend’s face. 

“I don’t understand. I’m not im-”

“If you finish that sentence with the word ‘important’ I’ll… I’ll, hell I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Fuck.

He knows they care about each other. He has no doubt. But that depth of emotion in Gil’s words is either new or - more likely normally so well hidden that it’s broken free and left jagged, painful edges on its way out.

Malcolm reaches for Gil’s hand, slow enough to make sure he knows what’s going on. To his immense relief, Gil meets him halfway, gripping tight. He runs a thumb across Malcolm’s knuckles, once, twice, and suddenly he can’t breathe, mind a muddled mess of confusion and upside down emotions. Is he dreaming this? Is half of this happening and he is inserting his own details? Or is he putting his own fucked up spin on a situation he is just reading entirely wrong? 

From the hall, a familiar voice raised in argument cuts through the chaos, brings him back to earth.

Where Gil is still holding his hand like a lifeline.

“Hurricane Jessica, arriving with perfect timing as always.” His mask of ‘I’m okay I don’t need help’ slips on easily. Sometimes it feels like the worse off he is, the more he needs these people, the easier it is to pretend.

“She’s here because she cares.” Gil reminds him though he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. With another quick squeeze he continues, softer. 

“She’s here because she  _ loves  _ you, Malcolm.”

There is an entire universe of meaning packed in that sentence but he doesn’t get the chance to examine any of it because his mother chooses that moment to waltz in and Gil stands, letting his hand slip from Malcolm’s grasp. 

“Oh good, you’re awake. Not that I really expected anything different, of course.”

Whoever she had been talking to out in the hall either lost or gave up if the fact that she is alone and looking smug as hell is anything to go by. It’s a subtle difference, and one most people wouldn’t even notice, but to him, her face is screaming victory.

“Everything is all set up for you to go home tomorrow. I’ve worked out a schedule with a private doctor and some medical equipment-”

“Mother. Mother. Woah, hold up.” He holds out his hands in a placating manner but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I thought he wasn’t even going to be re-evaluated for discharge for another 48 hours.” Gil looks at Malcolm, even though he is talking to his mother. 

AND THERE is the face he knows and loves; a subtle frown full of worry and a hint of accusation. Suddenly, Malcolm feels more on solid ground again.

“Oh don’t worry, Gil.” Jessica says to him, breaking into her own tirade. “That’s exactly what the doctor said so if that’s what Malcolm told you, he was telling the truth. But I was here for that conversation. I saw the look in his eyes. He is planning on sneaking out of here before then the first opportunity he gets. I’m just making sure he won’t kill himself doing it.” 

She’s right, of course. There had been vaguely thought out ideas of getting out in the next day or so, but no actual plans. It’s not like he has a place he can safely crash.

“That’s absurd,” he says instead of admitting anything. “My building doesn’t even have an elevator; it hasn’t worked in years. And I can’t make it up that many stairs on my own. Where would I have gone?”

“Which is exactly why you’re going to thank me for having that thing replaced. It’s being finished up right now.”

He balks at her, unable to respond at first. “How - how on earth...”

“Oh, darling. You know throwing a couple extra zeros on a check will get anything done in record time.”

“Maybe I should go. You two sound like you have a lot of details to work out.”

“Yes of course. Thank you so much for staying with him, Gil.”

“No.” Malcolm and his mother respond over each other, but he waits for her to finish before he continues, pleading. “Don’t go.” 

Gil comes back to the side of the bed so they can look at each other and almost pretend they’re alone. Ignoring the flustered huff of a woman who usually has command over a room, including who is in it, Malcolm waits for his friend to say something.

“Are you sure? After… I just thought.”

“I admit, I’ll need some time to process. But not without you in it. Stay. Please. I want you to.”

Though Gil doesn’t respond, he does smile while Jessica begins to take control back over the conversation, spouting off about doctor schedules, transport specifics, nurse rotations, restraints, medications, all of it she’d planned down to every single last minute detail.

Thankfully, through it all, Gil stays. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note the First:** STORY TIME. Every Christmas my mom comes to my house, takes over my HULU, and gets me hooked on some TV show. This year it was Harrow and Lie to Me. The second I had finished both of those I desperately asked Hulu, _what should I watch next_. "OH HO!" It says to me. "You love murder and mayhem and psychology and complex characters and interpersonal relationships and protagonists who are always _always_ right? Try this on for size!" And threw Prodigal Son in my face. I watched all ten episodes in one day. And again the next day. And here I am on my fourth day posting fic already.
> 
> **Note the Second:** When my dad was dying in the ICU they threw the strict visitor's hours they usually kept up out of the window since we knew we didn't have much time left. I'm basing this experience on that. I don't know if its the same everywhere but whatever.
> 
> **Note the Third:** This will be a case fic. There will be completely made up psychological profiles and the like. I have a ten year old degree in psychology and have been working in banking since before they gave it to me. I know nothing, Jon Snow. I also don't have a beta reader because I don't have friends. Every mistake is my own just like the rest of my life.
> 
> **Final Note:** Say Hi maybe?


	2. Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a theory in Cognitive Psychology called Contextual Memory. Essentially, you remember things better if you're within the same context as when you learned it. For example: chewing gum while studying means you should chew gum while taking the exam so you remember better!
> 
> Malcolm hates Contextual Memory.

Fog / fɒg / verb. to confuse or obscure;

99.9% of the time Malcolm absolutely loves being right.

It’s that .1 that really gets to him though.

The actual act of moving back to the loft isn’t an issue at all. There is, as promised, a team of professionals to move him as safely and comfortably as money can afford. He hadn’t actually known luxury medical transports were a thing but he is not surprised. Learn something new every day.

At his loft, however, everything quickly goes to shit.

The first thing to break in is emptiness. At the hospital, there was a schedule, a frequency in which he saw people and a steady hum of life that became the white noise of his days and nights. As much as he craves his solitude at times the abrupt shift from constant life to the insulated silence is jarring, to say the least. He finds himself indulging in his mother’s presence and actively avoiding antagonizing her for the first time in many, many years.

Next is the drugs. He’s to be weaned off the heavy shit on the same schedule the hospital had him on but the day his levels hit ‘normal people with no ridiculous drug tolerance’ doses is also day ten without his psychotropics. So not only does the pain come creeping back up on him, it triggers an episode.

Which is just all kinds of awesome.

It is subtle, at first. It’s a clench in his gut he attributes to hunger. His nurse, Mallory with the pretty red hair, is there when it starts but doesn’t seem concerned. “We’re cutting back on your pain meds. It is completely normal to feel little aches today.”

By the time Dani gets there with dinner (doctor-approved!) he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, it is not hunger. His whole body is on fire.

“Soup’s on!” Dani’s curly hair is pulled back as if she threw it up in a bun without care. She looks tired, despite her brilliant smile as she holds up the box of takeout noodle containers. (One step up from the liquid diet is the liquid and noodle diet. Good thing he likes udon.)

“You are the best.” He manages to completely hide the wince he wants to make when he sits up. But it seems Dani has been learning his tells a little better than he has given her credit for.

Her abrupt frown is concerned and she abandons dinner on the counter to come to stand at his bedside. “How are you feeling?” She asks in a tone that means she at least half knows. There’s even a single raised eyebrow. How much more accusatory could she get?

“I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.” He lies through his teeth.

“Uh-huh. Mallory?” She calls out to the nurse who has been filling out paperwork in the kitchen. 

“Yes, ma’am?” Mallory comes over without protest and with a genuinely pleasant smile. 

“What’s different today? He’s in a lot of pain.”

“I really can’t -”

“It’s fine. You can tell her. Actually. I officially give you blanket permission to answer the questions of anyone who comes in here because they’ll all find out anyway and this way they don’t have to pester me about it.”

His nurse lets out a soft chuckle before answering. “We lowered his medication today. He is probably just feeling the edge of that difference.”

Dani frowns more, obviously not convinced. “No one would know if it was just a little pain.”

“I told you, I’m fine.” 

He’s really not.

“Yeah, and usually you’re a way better liar than this so forgive me for wanting a second opinion.”

“Why don’t I just check your wounds. If you’re really feeling it already maybe something is off.”

Before he can muster the energy to protest her hand is on the edge of the bandage on his side and pain shoots like lightning through his spine.

“Bright!”

“What’s wrong?”

He arches off the bed with a scream of agony as another hand settles over his chest.

“Settle down, son. You can do this.” 

Martin stares back at him with that disgustingly charismatic smile of his.

“No, he can’t. He’s not strong enough.” Watkins sneers down at him but his father just tuts.

“Malcolm!”

“Of course he can. He is my son, after all.”

No. “No!” He tries to pull away, to step back but it just makes the pain worse and the smile on Watkins’ face turns into a manic laugh. “Dad. Stop. Please.”

“Nah. I think he needs a little more incentive.”

Fire explodes in his ribs making him cry out again. 

There are two Martins.

No.

Just one Martin. 

But the grey in his hair fades in and out over and over. One second he is angry at Watkins, fury evident in his shouting.

“You hurt my boy!”

The next he is indulging.

“Just a little more. That’s it.”

“You need to come out of it.”

Malcolm tries to run.

“He’s going to hurt himself!”

“You can’t escape this, Malcolm. You can’t escape who you are. I keep telling you.”

He tries again, this time getting away from all the hands but not the pain and falling falling falling until he hits nothing.

Doctors.

Clacking of an MRI machine.

His mother’s voice.

Gil.

More hospital beds.

A lot of bright lights.

“Don’t worry Malcolm. You’ll get it. I have the utmost faith in you.”

Malcolm wakes with a start and deep gasp, throwing his hands around for purchase until he realizes he is in his own bed, restrained, and hooked up to an IV and monitors.

“Mornin’ sunshine!”

He blinks and lets his vision clear up just to see the last person he had expected to be at his bedside this early in the morning come into focus.

“JT?”

“Don’t get any ideas. I ain’t here for you. I’m here to drag his ass to work.” JT points across the bed where Gil is sitting in one of the large armchairs that is usually in his living room looking as innocent as he could possibly pull off.

“I promised your mother I would keep her company until your doctor got here.”

“Yeah.” JT nods. “And she just got here. They’ll be up any second so its time to go. Chop chop.”

Though Gil opens his mouth to respond Malcolm gets there first. “Just, give me a few to at least say good morning, okay?”

JT shakes his head then points at Gil again who is biting back a smile. “Five minutes.” Then turns and leaves.

“You skipping work for me?”

“Hardly.”

“So what’s that about?”

Gil shrugs one shoulder, a light of amusement in his eyes. “It may be my turn to bring in the coffee orders.” He moves from the chair to the edge of the bed and carefully helps Malcolm out of his restraints, fingers gentle and tender when they brush against his wrists. “How are you feeling?”

For a second he thinks about brushing him off. In fact, he’s absolutely going to. But he is mesmerized by the older man’s hands working around his shaking ones and starts talking before he can stop. “Terrible. Like I’ve been run over and then they backed up and did it again. I can stand the pain but the foggy head is even worse and I don’t… I don’t know what…” He is ashamed of how small and broken he sounds.

“Shh. It’s okay. We’ll get it figured out.” Gil looks like he actually believes that and Malcolm scoffs at him. He can’t even figure out what is real. What are his memories and what are his dreams? He is not entirely convinced Gil is actually here, or that JT came up voluntarily. Hell, that concept alone makes all this easier to slip into the ‘wild imagination’ category.

Someone is talking to him again.

But the fog. 

It’s too thick. 

Too loud.

Too quiet.

“Malcolm.”

He looks up and blinks at his mother, happy to see that even though his hands are still shaking, he hasn’t done himself any further harm.

“It’s good to see you awake again, Mr. Bright.” Standing next to his mother is Dr. Fhar, a dark-skinned woman with a thick French accent and a blindingly cheerful bedside manner. “We need to discuss your medications and figure out the best way to move forward.”

As it turns out he had gone into full-blown panic mode the night before and started fighting to get away. Since he hadn’t been planning on sleeping his restraints weren’t in place yet and he managed to move around a lot before passing out. Enough they had felt the need to take him to their private facilities for an MRI to check to make sure he hadn’t ruptured internal sutures and was going to bleed out internally.

Again.

Unfortunately, he can’t go back to his normal medication until he is on a low enough dose of narcotics it won’t interfere. But if they speed up the dosage drop schedule he’ll be in a lot of pain and possibly have withdrawals. 

The doctor leaves it up to him.

How he is supposed to make a decision doped up, still in immeasurable pain, and on day eleven (at least) without his meds is a mystery to him.

But apparently, he does.

Turns out it will still be a while before he gets his reality back.

What’s a few more days of crazy anyway?

* * *

You would think that would be the worst of his week from hell. Maybe even hope for it. 

But no.

You would be wrong.

No, that title belongs to two days later when everything really hits the fan. And oh, look at that, it’s his biggest fan.

Colette.

After Mallory opens the door she strides into his home like she owns the place flanked by two junior agents he has never met before. Thankfully, it’s not just the FBI. Gil and JT take up the rear and keep silent vigil over the proceedings.

“What do you want?” Normally he is overly polite with her, as is his usual M.O. with people who don’t like him (which is, well, most people). His change in demeanor only causes a split-second reaction before she returns to a carefully crafted look of neutrality.

“What I want is to throw your ass in jail for interfering with a federal investigation. What I’m here to do is interrogate you on everything that happened to you on December twenty-fourth so that competent, actual badge-carrying law enforcement officers can track down and arrest this son of a bitch before anyone else is killed. That work for you?”

“Interrogate? That’s an interesting word choice, Special Agent Swanson.”

“A deliberate one, I assure you.”

For about three and a half minutes she manages to keep her line of questions about what he experienced as a victim of John Watkins. He keeps his answers as short, succinct, and as factual as possible. If he doesn’t respond with emotions, he doesn’t have to acknowledge them. They won’t beat him. Not here. Not now.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t really remember anything between blacking out in the shed and waking up in the hospital.

Fairly quickly, however, it becomes apparent her inquiries are no longer for a victim, but for the pain in her ass that is former FBI agent Malcolm Bright.

They go through every single detail of what he and Shannon did after he was waylaid on his way to his mother’s - twice. He even makes sure to point out that the pie he’d had with him is more than likely still at Chief Turner’s garage. Where they had gone to investigate Turner’s murder. The case he is - was - officially consulting on. He reminds her of that - paid consultant! - several times.

“And once you knew you were looking for the Junkyard killer?”

“We didn’t KNOW anything!” Malcolm wants to pull his hair out. “We were working off an idea. An idea that proved fruitful when we had a match on our lists so we had to check it out.”

“You didn’t have to do anything except bring everything you had to the FBI the second you realized it was the same case.”

“We had to be sure. No one would have listened to us if we didn’t have something to back our claim up.” He spares a glance at Gil then, unsurprised at the flash of hurt in his eyes. But it is kind of true.

“So now we’re all incompetent as well?” She gestures around the room but looks far from offended on anyone’s behalf, even her own.

“No. Just slow to take the word of a drunk, disgraced cop and an insane former FBI Profiler.”

“You got me there.”

“Hell, half the time the people paying me to help them have to be convinced to let me help!” That’s not entirely true. The number’s much lower than 50%. Closer to like, 20. But something has gotten a hold of him, the pain in his chest ratcheting up bit by bit until he feels a grip on his heart.

“Oh, really? Is that why you followed a lead into a case you weren’t authorized for? Tired of convincing people. Bright doesn’t need back up or to tell people where he is going so they can find him. Better to seek forgiveness than ask permission.”

Malcolm is having trouble getting a full breath of air. “Something like that?”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Not… not so hot, actually.”

“Tell me what happened with Watkins.”

“I don’t re - I can’t.”

“Bullshit! After he knocked you out. What did he do? What did he say? There’s no way you were unconscious that whole time.”

“He didn’t… I… He was so angry.” Malcolm’s hands are shaking violently, the death grip he has on his sheets the only thing keeping the rest of his body in check. “Furious. He yelled at me, every time he hit me. Wanted to know why I stopped him, why I threw a wrench in his righteousness.”

“Okay. What else?”

Malcolm flinches, remembering every single blow in rapid succession over and over again. Repeat. Again. Once more.

“Bright, answer me.”

“WHY? How did you do it? How did you find me? What did I do wrong? Tell me!”

Colette asks something else and the air still won’t come. “I, I was chasing ghosts. I was, I had to know.” He manages between desperate gasps. He is drowning in empty water and forgot how to swim.

“That’s enough! You’re finished here.”

He is vaguely aware of movement in the room, of Gil standing between him and the rest of the world.

“Oh, I am nowhere near finished with him.” 

“You are tonight. JT, see these agents to the door.”

There’s more movement.

Arguing.

A dip in the bed.

“Bright. You need to breathe. Listen to me, Bright. You can get control over this but you have to focus.”

The sound of his front door slamming shut registers somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Malcolm.”

There is a hand on his face.

Warm.

Familiar.

A thumb brushes the tear on his cheek.

His own hand is pressed against a solid mass that raises and lowers steadily.

Up.

Down.

In. Out.

“That’s it, Malcolm. Come on, come back to me. Breathe with me.”

He does. Slow, careful inhales and long exhales for many uncountable minutes until he doesn’t need Gil’s guidance anymore.

Doesn’t mean he lets go.

“Fuck, she played me.” He leans into Gil’s touch, tilts his head for a firmer press of skin against skin.

“What do you mean?”

“She knew I was keeping my emotions in check at the beginning and got me worked up defending myself so I’d slip. She’s so damn good at that. I hate her.”

“It was wrong. You aren’t a suspect. There was no reason to -”

“No. Actually. That’s the worst part. I genuinely didn’t remember and her tactics worked. She got me defensive and put me in a contextually relevant state to remember what she wanted to know, what we need to know.” He feels himself slipping back into a state of panic and takes several shaky breaths before just giving into temptation and collapsing against Gil who immediately wraps him in a warm embrace. “I just wish it didn’t hurt so fucking much.”

Gil’s arms are strong, comforting. He runs a hand in slow, soothing motions along his back as Malcolm breathes him in. There’s a strong scent of coffee mixed with the same cologne and aftershave the man has probably been wearing since he hit puberty. 

Warm air tickles at Malcolm’s neck from where Gil is taking his own deep breaths just behind Malcolm’s ear. His mind floods with images and desires he has held secret for so long - memories of how much he wants. How much he has always wanted and can’t have.

In a strange moment of self-preservation, Malcolm pulls back.

Well, just enough to not be wrapped up in Gil completely but not enough to actually escape his touch.

He’s not looking out for himself  _ that  _ much.

“So, uh. Do they know?”

Gil raises an eyebrow at him in silent question.

“About what happened when you found me?”

“Ah. Well, yes. They do. And after several doctors pointed out that if I had been just a minute later you wouldn’t…” his voice catches and he looks away for a moment before dropping his gaze completely to continue. “You wouldn’t have been around any longer to question, I only got in a little bit of trouble.”

“How much is a little?”

“No serious long term consequences. Probably won’t get this year’s merit raise.” His tone and shrug make it perfectly clear he cares absolutely zero about that consequence. “I’m more worried about you.”

Malcolm could easily pretend he doesn’t know what he means and just say he’s fine, that he thinks he means his current - admittedly fragile - mental state more than how he’s handling the fact that Watkins got away.

But he doesn’t

“I will never ever be upset that you saved my life, Gil.” He waits until the other man looks up again, meets his gaze and can see the truth in it before continuing. “Not ever.”

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

This time, it’s Malcolm who places a gentle hand on Gil’s cheek. “There is absolutely nothing to forgive.”

Gil looks like he wants to laugh, or shake his head and deny Malcolm’s words. But he also has a reluctant smile growing, eyes searching for something on Malcolm’s face, tracing his features, his lips. Then he grips the younger man’s face and tilts him down so he can press a lingering kiss just at the edge of his hairline.

That’s…

That’s a glitch. That’s…

Wrong?

Not wrong bad but wrong missed a hole while lacing your shoe, wrong like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit where you know it’s supposed to go because it’s the last one. 

Before Malcolm can figure out what the actual fuck the door is opening again and Gil is gone, halfway across the room.

“JT! Grab a beer. I need a drink.”

So that… didn’t happen?

Gil looks back at Malcolm while pouring a tumbler of scotch. Just one, of course. “You okay to move around yet or do we need to bring the party to you?”

“No, no. Uh, I can walk. I’m supposed to a couple times a day anyway.” He says, shaking away his bewilderment. 

It takes him some time, but eventually, the three of them wind up in the kitchen, JT and Malcolm with a cold beer and hot tea - respectively - at the bar while Gil stirs up a premade pan of noodles and vegetables at the stove. 

“I don’t know how you’re not going stir crazy in here,” JT says, setting his bottle down on the counter. Then he looks contemplative for a moment. “Well, crazier than normal.” He adds with a wink.

“I am going stir crazy. Crazier than normal. And not just because I’m off my meds.”

“Don’t you have any hobbies?”

“Does murder count?” Malcolm asks.

Gil groans while JT rolls his eyes. 

“ _ Solving  _ murder.” 

“You’re serious.” 

“Unfortunately,” Gil smacks JT’s hand before he can snatch a noodle from across the bar. “He is.”

JT looks around the loft carefully, obviously with his detective’s eye. Malcolm can almost tell every single time he pauses on a detail in the space, takes it in, analyzes it. “What about all these books? The weapon collection?”

“The weapons are fun when I’m allowed to do physical activity. And the books are all, well, mostly all scholarly publications and published books on uh, crime and murder. Go figure!”

“You are kidding.”

“Nope!” He says with a manic grin. “That whole set,” Malcolm gestures to the left-most column of shelves. “Is psychology and criminal psychology. Mostly criminal, of course. The next one is a mix of in-depth detailed first hand accounts of serial killers including, you know, him, and true crime of people that didn’t quite make the serial killer definition. Then it’s the analysis  _ of  _ those killers. Then we move into less deadly crime followed by -”

“I get it. I get it. Can’t you like, learn to knit or something? Paint?”

Gil, who still hasn’t said anything else, places plates in front of both of them with an almost hidden smile. 

“What do you do, oh guru of not murderous hobbies?”

Despite trying to hide it, JT can’t quite cover up his snort. “You know I play pool. I read a lot - and not crime thrillers either. Get enough of that during the day. And I repair old furniture.”

Malcolm stares at JT, eyes wide, nearly giddy. “Please. Please tell me you, YOU, go antiquing.”

“He goes antiquing,” Gil says before JT can mutter any kind of defense.

“No one likes a snitch. But yes. And not like, that stay at home mom buy old shit and slap a coat of spray paint on it. I actually restore it, try and make it look like new again. Nothing prettier than beautifully stained wood grain.”

Silence settles comfortably over the three of them for a few minutes while they eat, Malcolm contemplating this new information on his friend and teammate that expands the details of his picture of him. But he still hasn’t solved his problem. He doesn’t want to restore old furniture.

“I still need something to solve. Oh!” JT grabs his beer before Malcolm can knock it over with his over-excited wave of his arm. “You can bring me those two cold cases you talked about in the hospital!”

“I never…” Gil tries and fails to deny what he had done but gives up pretty quickly. “I can’t do that. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. You need to rest.”

“I can rest and read at the same time.”

“Nah. Not really bro.” JT shakes his head.

“Or better yet! The Stephenson case!”

Gil’s amused grin goes flat in an instant. “Not no, but hell no.”

“Isn’t that one closed? The guy was found guilty.”

Malcolm waves his fork in dismissal. “Didn’t do it.”

It’s obvious Gil is trying to reign in his temper, lips pursed tight and staring at Malcolm as if he’s trying to remember why he ever saved the asshole in the first place. Eventually, he shakes his head. “You’re not getting  _ any  _ cases. End of conversation.” And tucks back into his own meal.

The silence is a little awkward this time, Malcolm feeling a little put-out but without the energy to keep arguing. Normally, he absolutely would have. After only a minute or two, he clears his throat and turns to JT. “So, tell me how you got into antiquing.”

For another hour, at least, the three just eat, drink a little, and talk. It’s easy, the flow of words and conversation between them. With Gil, it has  _ always  _ been easy but he’s surprised at how well he can find things to keep JT going, especially since he’s normally a man of such few words. Though Malcolm doesn’t have much to offer himself, he is genuinely fascinated to learn more about his friend.

But the night must end, and Gil hangs back a second after JT sees himself out. He helps Malcolm stand, one hand hovering at his waist the other at his arm, and when they’re both fully vertical his touch moves slowly down towards Malcolm’s wrist, then grips their hands together, bringing the other to clasp over them both. “When you’re done with all this,” Gil starts, looking at their hands before glancing up to continue. “When medical clears you and it’s safe for you to be out and about again and in the office, I’ll give you those cold cases to work, alright?”

For the second time today, Malcolm can’t breathe, but it’s for entirely different reasons than before. To test a theory, a terrifying, dismal theory, he steps closer, into Gil’s space. 

When Gil doesn’t move, just lets him in, Malcolm almost laughs. 

Was the whole night a dream?

He could kiss him. It’s not like its actually happening. It would be just like he’s always imagined it seeing as he’s still imagining it. 

But he doesn’t.

Because then he would have to face a world where this isn’t real.

“Sounds good, Gil.” He says, taking a careful step and letting their hands fall apart.

There’s a flicker of disappointment in Gil’s eyes before he nods. 

“Good night, Malcolm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT! Malcolm only ever refers to Martin as dad when he's dreaming/remembering.


	3. Plans

Plan / plæn / n. a scheme or method of acting, doing, proceeding, making, etc., developed in advance:

Reality is overrated.

It takes a week until the doctors let him start taking his medication again, one at a time. And Mallory, the bad word he won’t say because he loves her, has hidden them all so he can’t self medicate. The antidepressants come first. Probably a good thing, in the grand scheme of things given that he had already begun to try and avoid - well, people. All the people. Though the anti-hallucinogens would have been nice. There  _ was  _ that one memorable evening where Gil came to find him sitting silently in the dark. Doing nothing.

Not even thinking, really.

Thoughts lead to emotions. Emotions are dangerous and, frankly, terrifying. But restarting the anti-depressants comes with dizzy spells. And dizzy spells do absolutely fuck all to help him escape the already muddled state of his brain. So of course, it’s the perfect time to try and start up a new hobby that doesn’t involve dead bodies.

Shame.

At first, he kind of wants to try paper cutting. But playing with sharp objects doesn’t seem like the best idea in his current state. He throws out half a dozen other thoughts before he comes across a youtube video that has him immediately calling up a local art supply store.

That afternoon he has a small table set up under his window covered in clay and sculpting tools.

His first attempts are all complete atrocities. But by the time he has been playing for a few days he has gotten a much better feel for the materials, the tools, and the textures and curves he is trying to bring to life.

No one in their right mind would call it  _ good,  _ but at least it’s recognizable.

“Huh. I would have thought you’d try painting.”

Malcolm looks up to see Gil watching him work from the other side of the table. “How did you get in here?”

“Your sister let me in.”

“Ainsley?” He glances around the space and sure enough, his little sister is sitting on her laptop at the kitchen counter. His surprise must show because she rolls her eyes.

“I’ve been here for an hour. Came to warn you about mother’s dinner plans, remember?”

“That was today?” At her slow, incredulous nod he waves her off. “Ah, well, anyway. Painting. Too cliche for a mental patient.”

“You’re not a mental patient.” Gil ghosts his fingers over some of Malcolm’s first pieces that are still drying on the edge of the table.

“Actually, I am. I have mental health conditions - several of them - that I see a doctor about at an incredible frequency. The only reason I’m not locked up is that I’m not a danger to myself or others.”

“That’s debatable.” His sister mutters without looking up.

Gil looks like he agrees but thankfully doesn’t say anything about it. “What about something like sudoku?”

“Too pedestrian.”

“I told him he should try chainsaw carving.” 

Gil does respond to her then. “That’s him being a danger to himself and others.”

“Hey! I’m perfectly capable of wielding a chainsaw when I’m actually physically healthy. I’m strong and coordinated enough.”

“You’re reckless,” his friend points out, perfectly reasonably.

Malcolm frowns because he doesn’t really have an argument to that. 

“Yeah,” Ainsley snorts. “But it would make for great stories at family get-togethers.”

“Because we don’t have enough of those as it is.”

She just rolls her eyes and refocuses on her laptop, giving Malcolm the chance to look up at Gil and give him a brilliant smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gil seems to take a moment to gather his thoughts, still staring down at him with his mouth slightly ajar, then blinks and finally answers. “Well, I was going to come and see what you planned to do for dinner tonight, but it seems like that’s already taken care of so I should probably get out of your hair.”

“Stay.” Malcolm blurts before any other thoughts can interfere. “And eat with us. Or go out with us, whatever my lovely mother is planning. I promise whatever it is, which I don’t actually know since I forgot what Ainsley told me, I promise she can make room for one more.” He glances behind Gil to his sister who is wrinkling her nose at him. “Right, Ainsley?”

“You’ve got like, one more day of this near-death sympathy card before I go back to not doing anything for you ever.” Despite her tone, she’s already tapping on her phone.

“Love you, too!” He shouts at her back as she disappears around the corner to make the call.

“Are you really losing time like that?” Gil asks the second she’s no longer visible.

“Among other things.” Malcolm looks back down to the clay in his hands, pressing on it and watching it shift slowly, bulging out at different depths depending on his pressure.

“Like what other things?” 

“Um, well. On top of the normal night terrors which are just super awesome, there’s the time skips which usually get filled back in once people give me some clues but not always. And they aren’t long or anything. But then every once in a while I’m seeing things or imagining people doing things they would never  _ ever  _ do.”  _ Like you kissing me,  _ he absolutely does not say out loud.  _ Even if it wasn’t on the lips. _ “Come help me up. I need to shower before my mother gets here.”

While Gil helps him stand, slowly, he asks, “The seeing things isn’t new though, is it?”

“I’ve been on anti-hallucinogens most of my adult life, so, no.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Once he gets Malcolm standing he lets his hands fall but stays close. “In the church, back in October. Whatever excuse you made, that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Malcolm takes a shaky breath and nods, biting at his lip. He remembers the slow build-up of what he still sees on a regular basis, how she had snuck on him literally and metaphorically. At first it was little things, second guesses if he saw something here and there. Now, she practically should be paying rent.

“It was the girl.”

Gil frowns, his brows drawn tight in concern. “The girl? The girl in the box?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s always here. Always around, haunting me, begging me to find her. And I can’t. I don’t know, I’m not…”

Before he can get too lost in what he doesn’t even know he’s trying to say Gil tugs him in close, a careful arm around his middle and a hand at the back of his head. He doesn’t want to cry. He won’t. But he’s so close he can hear it in the tic in his voice while he speaks into Gil’s shoulder.

“And mother won’t tell me anything, like hell the FBI will let one-word slip, and I’m pretty sure they’re keeping you in the dark now too.”

“Yeah.” Malcolm feels Gil nod. “Unfortunately, they are.”

For a long time, they just stand there, Malcolm happily soaking in Gil’s comfort, leaching away his warmth and his touch. He doesn’t want to let go. But when he lets out a long, shaky breath, Gil’s whole body tightens then he pulls back, just enough to make eye contact. 

“What can I do to help? I know I can’t fix it. God knows so many of us would if we could but…”

“You’re doing it already. Just be here. Keep being here.”

“You got it.”

  
  
  


* * *

His weeks continue to go a bit like that. He gets lost in the sculpting, having friends and family over a LOT more than he is used to, and well, losing chunks of time. Not big things just… moments, where people show up or leave and he doesn’t even really notice. And it isn’t always gone, sometimes it’s just difficult to grasp the details.

Colette interrogates him again, and this time he’s ready. It still sucks, it still hurts like hell to be broken down like that. But he is prepared for the aftermath, the comedown, and even though Gil isn’t there as the last time, he makes it through a little sooner.

Unfortunately, the information he was able to give wasn’t that helpful.

So all in all, not the best day of his recovery.

In better news, it isn’t long after that that Dr. Fhar gives him the all-clear to go back to work. Which he manages to do that day. Ten minutes after she leaves, Malcolm is drying off from his shower and digging out a suit. 

An hour later he is strolling through the station.

“Look who it is.”

Malcolm gives JT a quick wave of his hand and a genuine smile. “Hey! They finally signed my release papers! I’m a free man again.”

“Glad to hear it, man! Sorry there’s no one here to give you anything though. Boss is out with Dani checking out a lead.” He types a few more things into his computer while Malcolm grabs a chair and slides up close.

“Oh? Lead? On what case?”

“Not one you need to worry about.”

“Oh, come on, JT. Maybe I don’t need to but I really really want to, and don’t you value my input by now?”

JT gives him a flat look. “Sometimes a murder is just a pissed off soon to be ex-wife who doesn’t want to give hubby a chance to change the will.”

“Really?” Malcolm pouts. “That IS boring. Are you sure?”

“Yeah. They’re sure. Just chasing down the money trail to prove she orchestrated the hit.”

Malcolm spins in the chair while continuing to pout, staring up at the ceiling. He really, really needs something to do and he knows he can’t push with JT. With Gil, he can always get away with it even if he doesn’t wind up getting what he wants. But Gil is not here. JT is here. And he is here. And he is bored. Because he has nothing to solve.

Oh! Cold cases. Or better yet, the one with the wrong guy.

“I got it!”

His outburst is unexpected if JT’s tiny jerk and clench of his hands is anything to go by.

“Got what?”

“Filing.” He says with a curt not. “You’ve got this whole stack of folders I just know you’ve been putting off taking to the archives.” 

JT is absolutely not convinced, nor should he be.

Good detective.

“Filing?”

“Yeah! I need something to do and you need something done. And it’s not like I’ll screw it up. I worked for the FBI, I know about paperwork.”

“The less I know about what you are actually up to the better.” He shakes his head then drops a stack of folders into a box at his feet before handing the whole thing to Malcolm. “But like hell I’m about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

All in all the actual filing and logging of said files takes a little over thirty minutes. But then he is exactly where he wants to be - in the archives - with all the cases from the past seven years or so.

He digs through the index for the cold cases first. It takes him a bit to track down the case numbers which turns out to be wasted time because neither of them are in there. Lucky him, the innocent convict one is. 

Jennifer Stephenson. 27. Stabbed once. Found by her roommate, Lacy Marshal, and the roommate’s girlfriend, Tarah Vanderslice. The boyfriend, one Arnold Jones - 30, was the only suspect they ever had and ultimately arrested and found guilty. He had no alibi, access to the apartment, his skin under her nails and fingerprints on the murder weapon, and worst of all, video of him showing up at the scene of the crime even though he swears even under oath he was on the other side of town. Then there are the crime scene photos. It is all exactly like Gil had described it, though with plenty of details that he had left out that just add to Malcolm’s conviction that they got the wrong guy. It’s too tidy, too neat for a crime done in anger.

All of it.

There are pages of photos, dozens of interviews and reports to pore through with neighbors and family members and Malcolm dives in headfirst. 

It’s late by the time he comes up for air, sun hanging low in the sky, but he knows what he needs to do.

Everyone is there when he makes it back upstairs and he goes straight for Dani at her desk.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite detective in all of New York!” He half sits against the edge of her desk and folds his hands in front of him while giving her his brightest smile.

“Bright! One day back at work and already lying to me. You should be ashamed.” Despite her words, Dani’s grin lights up her eyes, obviously happy to see him.

“What I am is offended! I would never…” Malcolm holds a hand over his heart but she just gives him a flat look then nods behind her towards Gil’s office where the man is pacing and talking to one of his officers.

“He is not a detective. He is the lieutenant.”

“So you admit he’s your favorite.”

“Of course he is. Now, let’s get back to the reason for all the flattery.”

Dani holds her hand out, palm up. “Hand it over.”

Her immediate acceptance before he can even make the request or get to the speech he had come up with to talk her into it, throws him off. Apparently, that shows on his face because she touches his arm and continues.

“The last time you asked me for a favor you uncovered a serial killer who had gone undetected for 20 years and confirmed some seriously important truths about your own past. If you’re looking into something, I know it’s important. So hand it over.”

For a few seconds, he just blinks at her in shock before coming to his senses and reaching in his pocket for the slip of paper he has jotted a few notes on.

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah. I have this chemical. It’s a cleaning agent that is a proprietary compound used by Largo Engineering.”

“Sounds like you already have what you need?”

“Yeah. Google’s great. But I need to know of any crime scenes where it was found in the last, I don’t know, ten years.”

“Just murder?”

“No. Anything.”

“That’ll take a bit. The database is huge. Let me finish up what I’m doing here and I’ll set it to compile.”

“You’re the best.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“Bright!” Dani waves him off when Gil sticks his head out of his office door and calls him over.

“Go see your real favorite.”

  
  


“Welcome back.” Gil starts while closing the door behind Malcolm. “You promise me you’re one hundred percent cleared to be back here?”

Malcolm throws his arms out, gesturing to himself. “Absolutely. I could even chase down a bad guy. Though they would probably outrun me. I need to get my stamina back up.”

“And what about everything else?” he asks, tone cautious.

“Better. Not, you know, perfect or even back to usual, but better than it has been by a long shot.”

“That’s good to hear.” He gives him a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder then heads to his desk. “Now that you’re back I think I owe you something.”

Two folders are brought out of a drawer and slapped down on the old, battered surface of his desk. 

At first, Malcolm lights up like it’s Christmas.

The second he has his hand on them, however, his smile falters. He recognizes these case numbers - the names.

“The cold cases,” he says in a disbelieving tone.

“Yeah. I told you that when you came back you could have them.” The concern is evident in his voice and the wrinkle in his brow.

“Oh! Yeah. Yes. Now I remember, of course.” He tries to give him his most convincing smile. Of course, he remembers that conversation. Thought it had been a dream. Was all of it real? What if it was? Can he trust any of his recent few weeks? He’s normally so good at knowing the difference. But he can’t do this here. No breakdowns in the office. No looking suspicious. He can do this. He has to do this.

“Thank you, for trusting me with these.”

“Always, Bright. I let JT know you’re looking over them so anything you need run by him. No going off on your own.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Hey, what about the -”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask for!”

“I know you. And I know what you want. And you can’t have it. Stick to these two cold cases, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Gil.” He gives him another easy smile and grabs the files. “Thank you.”

Malcolm makes to leave and before he makes it through the door Gil stops him with a hand on his shoulder. 

He hadn’t even noticed the man cross the room.

“It is really good to have you back, Bright.” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Malcolm is on the street, around the corner, catching his breath and blinking against the icy February evening air.

_ I’ll give you these cold cases. _

Hands enveloping his.

_ ...you forgive me? _

Coarse hair hiding soft lips against his skin.

_ I can’t lose you too. _

_ Malcolm... _

So many moments—of hands and touches and words—shared between them since he was rescued. 

He realizes the only people who have ever been in his hallucinations, in his night terrors - not his memories - are the people who scare him. The people he is terrified of. Martin Whitley. John Watkins. The Girl in the Box. 

But everyone else, everything else, he knows the difference. He has always known what was real and what wasn’t, what was a dream and what was a memory - even when no one else believed him. He has spent so much of his life with his thoughts and desires for Gil firmly in the ‘wild fantasies’ category that any new piece of data is tossed there automatically. He couldn’t even comprehend what was going on it was so outside of what his mind had set out as clear expectations.

Was it though?

Maybe?

Yes. Absolutely. 100%. Well, 60 at least. Something has changed but he needs to know for certain. He needs answers.

Malcolm is not surprised in the slightest to find himself still walking at almost 8 p.m. and headed in the direction of Gil’s place. Hell, he has already crossed the East River. 

So as he walks, he plans. Plots. Thinks of ways to subtly figure this whole shit out. Direct questions are  _ out  _ of the question. He would be mortified. If he’s wrong about this, he’ll never be able to look the man in the eyes again. So, subtle. Maybe some flirting? He can do that, right? He knows how, surely? Malcolm is actually really good at laying on the charm when he needs to fool someone, or he’s lying to people.

Problem is, he hardly ever lies to Gil. And he despises himself when he does.

Wait, do lies of omission count?

Whatever.

Not important.

What is important, is a plan.

And he has a plan. A great plan. An amazing plan that is going to work. He’ll have his answer and…

“Bright?”

Malcolm turns on his heels to find himself staring at Gil’s house, front door open and Gil standing in it. He’s still wearing what he had on at work - dark denim and a yellow button-up with a soft-looking deep grey sweater pulled over it. For a long time Malcolm just stares, unsure of what to say. Eventually, Gil gestures him closer and he goes to stand at the bottom of the steps but still doesn’t say anything. 

“Care to tell me what you’re doing pacing in front of my house at almost nine at night?”

“I uh, I don’t…” Malcolm had a plan for this. Something to say, something simple but slightly charismatic. Some excuse to spend a few minutes together. Something.

Anything.

Jesus, he hates his brain sometimes. 

Gil comes down the two steps to be on Malcolm’s level, reaching for him, not just grabbing him by the shoulder, but at the neck, that damn, calloused thumb of his just at his pulse point so electrifying he can’t breathe.

“Hey, whatever it is. It’s alright. You can tell me, Malcolm.”

_ Malcolm.  _

That’s what does it, does him in. This is real. Gil is real and Gil is here and Gil is using his name. The lights of the city around them reflect in his dark brown eyes and Malcolm can’t look away, can’t remember anything he had thought about on the way here, nothing he had planned for. So he looks him in the eyes, shakes his head, and asks:

“Do you find me attractive?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CUT TO COMMERCIAL BREAK**  
> 
> 
> Sorry I missed yesterday. This one was harder than I expected as I knew where it needed to wind up but not how I wanted it to get there. Next update will likely be Saturday at the earliest as I have a lot to actually do at work tomorrow. 


	4. Start

Start / stɑrt / v. to begin or set out, as on a journey

“Do you find me attractive?”

There’s a long, drawn-out moment where nothing happens, but then Gil actually takes half a step back in surprise, pulling his hand back and blinking rapidly as he takes in Malcolm’s words.

“Maybe we should have this conversation inside.”

Which is decidedly not a no.

It takes a second for Malcolm to get with the program though, standing there in shock that he wasn’t laughed at or told to just go home. Maybe Gil is just worried about him, thinks he is having an episode. Which isn’t out of the question of course. It’s a perfectly reasonable conclusion to think that - oh, right. Inside.

Though he hasn’t been there much in recent years, Malcolm isn’t surprised to see the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s notably more cluttered than Jackie would have ever allowed it to become but there’s still the soft, plush, cream carpet, muted but colorfully painted walls covered in photos and wildly eclectic mix of furniture that is all even more comfortable than it already looks. After taking his coat, Gil gestures for him to sit in the living room while he disappears into the kitchen. With his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, Malcolm takes several long, deep breaths while he waits for him to return. He tries to think of what to say to fix this. His hands are shaking and he knows his face is deep red from embarrassment all because he couldn’t control his own damned mouth. 

Gil sets a tumbler of scotch and a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table before pulling over one of the side chairs and sitting directly in front of him. But Malcolm just sees his knees, as he refuses to look up even though he really needs to face this head-on.

“Malcolm -”

“I’m sorry.” He’s talking into his hands at first and doesn’t want to give Gil a chance to really say anything before he can explain. Everything is wrong, he didn’t do this right at all. “I shouldn’t have just shown up like this but I need to uh, look. Ever since I woke up from the surgery things have been - different. With you. Specifically. You - you touch me differently and say things that I - Gil you call me by my name in private. You haven’t called me by my name since I was a kid. And I - I couldn’t tell if any of it was real.”

He does look up then, shocked to see a hint of surprise and sadness in Gil’s gaze. “You think that I would pretend -”

“No! No, never. It wasn’t - ugh.” He’s still getting this wrong. Why can’t he figure out how to do this right? “Let me start over. I have had it bad for you for SO long. When I was 14…” Gil groans and drops his head with a soft ‘oh god’ but Malcolm barrels on through “...you were my big gay panic. At 15, you were a massive part of my bi-sexual acceptance. You were - are - so damned good looking and you were kind and you were funny and you were THERE. But I realized eventually it was a massive case of hero-worship. And I accepted that. I did. But then I grew up and experienced more of life and the world and people and every time I came home you were still... You. But you were real and flawed and still good. And I still wanted but I wanted in a more realistic way because I knew what I liked and what I craved from life and lovers and I…” He stops with a sigh, taking a second to get his next words right so Gil will understand. “everything in my life that isn’t work has to be compartmentalized into these little boxes of expectation. And when life does something different I either panic - oftentimes to epic proportions - or I pretend. There’s no other option. I had you - you who clapped me on the back and called me Bright - in one box and fantasy you - who touched me and kissed me and held me - in the other box. When you started - when I woke up - every time I saw you I just, I assumed I was stuck in box number two in my head because I needed something good and I, I just, I didn’t know and I couldn’t…” Malcolm takes another deep breath. “Gil, you called me by my name.”

Gil holds his gaze and though he still looks sad there’s an edge of amusement there, too. He grabs the mug from the coffee table and shifts forward in his seat so his knees are almost brushing Malcolm’s. 

“Are you done?” His words are soft, understanding.

“God, I hope so.”

“Drink your tea.” Malcolm lets out a small huff of a laugh and accepts the mug. Immediately the warmth begins to seep into his freezing fingers, feeling returning to his arms and body as a whole as soon as he takes a sip. It’s a dark blend, with orange and a hint of honey. He realizes how exhausted he is, how sore he already is from walking for the last two hours. Though the doctors had assured him he was in no danger of re-opening anything vital he knew he hadn’t even begun to regain his strength or stamina yet. But this is more than worth it, it has to be. One way or another he’s going to get an answer.

Gil seems to be gathering his thoughts, his own drink in hand but not drinking it, rather swirling the amber liquid in slow steady circles.

“Do you remember that time you came and stayed with us your last year of grad school?” 

It takes him a second but eventually Malcolm nods. “For a job interview, yeah. In case Quantico didn’t accept me. I didn’t want my mother to know I was in town so I literally couldn’t stay anywhere else.” Not that he’d wanted to stay anywhere else. This place was always his favorite. 

Something, a thought or a memory, makes Gil bite back a smile.

“You were so nervous. You were fidgeting more than normal and all over the damn place with your moods. You would be silent and distant one second and chattering a mile a minute the next. But - that first night…” Malcolm remembers that night, remembers the two of them being up until he literally couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and waking on the couch in Gil’s office, tucked in with blankets he hadn’t gotten himself. 

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought you were both long gone to bed so I wandered out to raid your liquor cabinet.” 

“But I was still pouring over a case file and you,” He points accusingly at Malcolm, “wandered in wearing only those threadbare pajama bottoms Jackie had gotten you for Christmas a few years earlier.” Gil sets his glass to the side before running both hands through his hair. “And god, it was like I had never seen you before. Your hair and your eyes and your  _ body _ …” 

“Well, I had been working out to get ready for the FBI.” He had been. Excessively. With his master’s thesis all but complete and just the defense to worry about he spent almost every evening that semester working out his excess energy while going over his defense in his head over and over and over again.

“It showed. Damn did it show. My mind went blank when you walked into the office and I had to down the rest of my scotch to keep from saying something highly inappropriate for a whole myriad of reasons.”

“But I wasn’t a kid anymore." He'd been twenty-three at the time. "I hadn’t been for a few years and I’m decidedly not now.”

“Trust me, I know. But it wasn’t your age. It was our relationship. I’d been an adult authority figure in your life for so long. And I knew about the hero worship” Malcolm lets his mouth hang open, mortified. But Gil waves his hands and shakes his head. “Not, not the extent it had apparently gotten to but in general terms.” It doesn’t help much but he does snap his mouth back shut with a nod. 

It wasn’t like he could have tried anything even if they had only just met then, that night. That age. Gil was married, to an incredible woman. It was one of the hundreds of reasons his desires had been so thoroughly locked away. 

“Not to mention Jackie.”

Gil lets out a burst of laughter and shakes his head. As he speaks, he fiddles with his wedding ring again, making like he’s thinking of taking it off. “Jackie and I were in a loving, committed, monogamous relationship. Didn’t make us blind. Hell, she had a thing for Jason Firth down the street. Used to joke that the day I didn’t come home she would march down the block and show him what he had been missing his whole life.”

Her laughter and her sense of humor had always been so brilliant. She could make a joke out of anything and it was usually either dark or dirty. Sometimes both. At one point he had assumed it was her coping method of being married to a cop, but eventually just accepted that that was just the way she was. Morbid sense of humor with a bad tendency to mutter ‘that’s what she said’ under her breath. And Gil loved her. It was plain as day in every interaction the two ever had.

“So like me,” Malcolm puts his own drink down then sets his hands on his knees, fingertips just reaching far enough to brush against Gil. “You buried it.”

Gil leans in, stealing Malcolm’s breath when he slips his slightly larger hands beneath his. “Damn right I did.” He nearly whispers, but his tone is still firm. “And did a damn good job of it too.”

Fascinated, Malcolm watches Gil’s hands lift his own and has to bite back a gasp of disbelief when he starts stroking his knuckles with his thumbs.

Voice barely loud enough to register himself, Malcolm breathes out. “What changed?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Then why, why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t ask anything of you and not have doubt that I had somehow influenced or made you do something you weren’t one hundred percent behind.” 

“You should know by now that I would never do anything I don’t want to do. For anyone.”

Gil actually laughs at that, and his smile is small but beautiful. “I said something similar to someone about you recently.” 

There’s a moment that seems to stretch on infinitely, where there are slight shifts between them. Small movements and nearly indistinguishable changes in their gaze twist and alter his whole world, his whole perception of reality. Malcolm lets it all wash over him, soak in and just  _ be real.  _ The two compartments of Gil and dream Gil link up in his mind and begin to fade into something else, something new. Because Gil,  _ real Gil _ , is staring at him like he wants almost as much as Malcolm does. His eyes flicker back and forth, tracing Malcolm’s face, his lips, and then back up again. 

And really, what else is there to do  _ except  _ to kiss him after that?

It’s gentle, a soft, simple press of lips to lips with their hands still linked together between them. Malcolm has to actually stop himself from giggling at how much Gil’s mustache tickles the sensitive skin just under his nose. But then there’s a change, a hand at his neck, warm and solid. He has to grab onto Gil’s shoulders when he’s guided to tilt his head, opens up for the other man and hums at the sweet taste of him, the warmth of his scotch and the lingering hint of coffee. It’s everything he has ever wanted and nothing like he had ever expected. Malcolm drowns in him, lets go and forgets that anything but this exists. 

He wants to stay here forever.

Somewhere in the distance, a buzzing noise breaks through his trance. 

Both men part slowly, reluctant and hazy at best. But Gil, still close enough for Malcolm to feel his words on his lips, comes to first. “I should figure out which one of us is needed.”

All Malcolm can do is nod, head still fuzzy from the kiss, and pout when he watches Gil disappear for a moment. Alone, he touches his fingers to his lips in shock, trying to commit to memory the buzzing feeling still lingering there… just in case.

“Why is Dani calling you right now?” Gil tosses him his phone and that having to act fast enough to catch it is enough to shake some of the cotton out of Malcolm’s head. 

“I don’t know. But it better be a damn dead body.”

Gil can’t hide his snort of laughter. “I would hope she’d call me first if it was that.” He leans over to plants a slow kiss on the top of Malcolm’s head before walking back into the kitchen with their drinks. “Answer it before she thinks you’ve disappeared again.”

“Uh, right.” It is all he can manage for a moment, slightly shaken by the easy affection. But the phone is still buzzing insistently in his hand so he finally answers. “Bright.”

“What are you doing?”

Malcolm stares, wide-eyed at where Gil had just been and tries not to feel guilty, failing miserably. “Uh, nothing?” 

“No, with this case, idiot. Whatever it is you’re definitely on to something.”

“Are you still at the station?” He pulls his phone away to check that it is as late as he had thought it was. Just after nine. Good, he hadn’t zoned out at all in the last half hour.

“I’m finishing up this murder for hire case to hand off to the DA first thing in the morning. But I was able to set your search up to run once a few other computers were free. Bright, this stuff isn’t just proprietary, it’s a massive industry secret. Well, it was.”

“Yeah, Largo Engineering makes machinery, automation, and robot equipment for the meat industry.” Malcolm starts rattling off the details he had gotten on his own earlier that day. “They developed it in the early 2000s but it was used exclusively by their own techs when cleaning the equipment until about a year ago when they made it available to their clients. It’s tough enough to get out blood but safe to then have consumables around. I got that all off google, what did the database bring up?”

There’s a long pause where he can clearly picture Dani rolling her eyes at him and taking a deep breath in order to not say something acerbic. “There was a shipment of it reported stolen in March of 2009. It doesn’t pop up on a crime scene until 2011 where it was used to sterilize broken glass in a b&e. Whoever worked the case marked it as ‘commercial cleaning solution’ in the database and now that’s all it pops up as. But after that, there’s a steady increase in occurrences including a murder and an unsolved missing person case.” 

Malcolm jumps to his feet. He can feel his skin start to tingle with the anticipation of getting it right, of finding something that he can go on. “And were they all centralized or spread out over the city? And when did the person go missing?”

“Uh, pretty centralized to a couple of neighborhoods, actually. And Margot Tanner went missing in…” there’s a rustling of paper and the click of a few keys on the keyboard while she pauses. “2016.”

“That’s  _ perfect! _ ” Malcolm ignores her noise of frustration. “That was  _ after  _ he was sentenced. This is great. Thank you, Dani.” 

“You know we need to let Gil know what you’re working on.”

That sobers up his excitement  _ real quick.  _ “I uh, I can tell him myself. Absolutely. Do it first thing -”

“Bright. If you think I believe for one  _ second _ that you’ll fess up to something we need to have words about your level of confidence in my intelligence.”

“Uh, right. Well, gotta go. Thanks again, Dani! Bye!” Malcolm ends the call and looks up just in time to see Gil coming in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

They just kind of stare at each other for a second, Malcolm unsure what to do, until Gil’s phone buzzes this time. It’s just a text though, which he pulls out and reads immediately.

“‘Our favorite idiot,’” he reads aloud “‘Is up to something. Keep an eye on him.’”

Gil looks less than impressed. After slipping his phone into his pocket he makes his way back to where Malcolm is still standing stock-still in the middle of the living room and places his hands on either shoulder. 

“Malcolm.” He starts, “You’ve been back at work a day.  _ One day.  _ Please tell me you haven’t already gotten into something you’re not supposed to.”

He really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want to lie to Gil. But also really doesn’t want to admit to anything right this second. Especially since he doesn’t have anything solid to go on yet to back him up. He wants to hold on to this, to not be reminded of all the complications of their lives that exist outside of this moment, outside of the one kiss they’ve shared. “Can I answer that tomorrow?” He’s nearly begging, holding on to Gil for dear life.

Gil just sighs and drops his head against Malcolm’s. They stand there for a moment, brow to brow, breathing each other in and holding on. 

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that right?” 

God, he hopes not. Not in any sense of the word, literally or figuratively. He wants to be so good for Gil, he wants to be right for him. But there’s so much at stake, so many external hurdles they’d have to get over, not to mention the internal ones. Fuck, he’s got so many problems that he’s going to screw this up. He is already screwing it up six ways from Sunday.

“What have you gotten into this time?”

Malcolm closes his eyes and forces himself to answer. “I can’t tell you.” When Gil goes stiff he hurries to add on. “Not yet. Not until I have some kind of solid evidence to prove I’m right. I can’t bear to see that look in your eyes. Not here. Not right now. But when I have something, something solid, to prove I’m not crazy- in this instance anyway - I promise I’ll tell you everything.” 

With a long defeated sigh, Gill shakes his head. “Just promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid, Malcolm. Please.” 

“I promise to try?”

“That’s the best I’m ever going to get out of you, isn’t it?’

“Probably.” 

He’s taken by surprise when Gil kisses him again, just as soft and sweetly as before. It’s not long, and he doesn’t linger. But it still sends dozens of jolts of intense desire through every inch of Malcolm’s skin. When Gil pulls away, Malcolm feels light-headed and lost. 

“It’s late.” He mumbles, desperate to not have this end on anything different than such a blissful moment. “I should probably go before I make this any worse.” 

“We really need to talk about this.”

“I know. Really, I do. But just, let me, pause, just to regather my mental state and make sure I’m in the right headspace to, fuck, to not screw this up. Because I really don’t want to screw this up.” 

Though obviously reluctant, Gil doesn’t argue. Instead, he helps him gather up his coat and walks him to the door. “Just promise me one more thing.” He stops Malcolm just after he’s opened the door, but doesn’t block the exit. “If you go anywhere strange, anywhere no one would think to find you while you’re tracking down whatever this is.  _ Tell someone.  _ Anyone.”

Malcolm drops his head with a self-deprecating smile, but nods. “That I can promise.” 

Gil finally smiles again, and it lingers as he watches Malcolm head out into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't gone to bed yet so it's still _technically_ Saturday for me.


	5. anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now being beta'd by the fabulous [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa)!

In a move that would surprise exactly no one who has ever met him, Malcolm doesn’t sleep that night. 

He doesn’t even bother trying.

Music fills his loft while he kills time until dawn, starting and stopping half a dozen different activities. But none of them can grab his attention. None of them give him the mental clarity he craves - a space to go over what had happened at Gil’s place, what he had done and then promptly ran away from. Keeping things from Gil is the last thing he wants to do, especially if he’s asking the man for more. But he knows he is right, that there is an innocent man sitting in Sing Sing and he is the only one who can get him out of there.

Where is the balancing point? The space where he can solve things for people but not be a burden on those he cares about with his erratic manner of problem solving. What will be too much where he isn’t worth the effort - the struggle? A rather loud and insistent voice in his head is telling him that Gil should trust him, believe him when he says these things. They’ve known each other for so long and have worked together on enough cases that surely he recognizes his brilliance by now.

But the part of his subconscious that doesn’t sound horrifically like Martin fucking Whitly reminds him that Gil is a cop. A good cop, a good man, in every sense of the word. He has rules and laws and procedures to follow

Asking him, point blank, to go around any of that isn’t fair. Even if he’s done it before.

Sometime during the night, it begins to rain.

Water drenches the city, the building, the world outside his loft. Against all his windows it beats out a steady drum of noise that drowns out the rest of the world. 

By mid morning the rain hasn’t shown any sign of letting up and he still doesn't know what to do about Gil. What he does know is what he’s going to do about the case.

Which should tell him something, but he is in the willful ignorance stage of the process right now.

After grabbing brunch with his mother (without too much cajoling on her part) Malcolm arranges for a car and heads for Sing Sing.

Arnold Jones is a burly man, even larger in person than Malcolm had surmised via all the case photos. His long blonde hair is surprisingly well kept for an inmate and his tattoos are mostly bright and colorful cartoon characters rather than a stereotypical wash of shades of black.

“Do I know you?” They’re sitting in a communal visitors room, staring at each other across a metal glorified picnic table. 

“I seriously doubt that, Mr. Jones.” Malcolm doesn’t bother offering a hand to shake, just nods towards him. “My name is Malcolm Bright. I’m a consultant working with the NYPD and I need to ask you a question.”

“Whatever it is I didn’t do it.” He leans back and crosses his arms, able to stare down at Malcolm even when they’re both sitting. “You can’t pin it on me this time, I have an airtight alibi.”

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s just, when you killed your girlfriend, whatever her name was,” Malcolm makes a show of not caring to remember and notes how Arnold closes his eyes, purses his lips. “After you, you know, stabbed her to death, you cleaned up the crime scene to try and cover your tracks using a rather specific chemical that isn’t commercially available anywhere.” Well, it wasn’t then even if it is now, but Arnold doesn’t need to know that. “And now, it’s popped up again at a missing person’s scene. We’d really like to find Macy, but we need something to go on, and well, that’s all we’ve got. So I need you to tell me where you got it from.”

For a long time, Arnold just stares him down, the only visible reaction so far the slight twitch in his jaw, almost imperceptible. 

“So let me get this straight,” He starts, leaning forward. “You are investigating a missing person’s case where they found the cleaning agent used to wipe up after Jennifer’s murder. You want me to help you by telling you where I acquired said chemical. You think that will help you track down this - Macy person?”

He’s not sure he could’ve been any clearer. It’s mostly the truth- technically he just didn't say how long ago the girl went missing.

“Yes. Yes, anything you may be able to share could help. Any tiny detail.”

Arnold takes a deep breath but the muscles in his jaw are visibly twitching now. “Either you are really dumb or think I am.” 

“Why would you say that, Arnold?” Malcolm blinks owlishly at him for a moment before breaking into the barest hint of grin.

Now the prisoner’s nose twitches. “Because I didn’t kill Jennifer. And if you think you’re going to get me to admit to something -”

“Oh, I don’t need you to admit to anything, Arnie! I know you did it. We all know you did it. You were found guilty and sentenced by the great state of New York!” Jaw clench again, a sniff. But there’s something else too. A twitch in his brow, the look of loss in his eyes. “Cops were called out for domestic disturbances to Jennifer’s place over and over and over again. You’re an angry man, Arn. That much is obvious.” He looks away at that - guilt, but about the anger, not Jennifer. “You say you left the apartment to cool off, but you came back. They got you on tape! You argued some more. You stabbed her,  _ to death,  _ and then cleaned up after yourself, you -”

“I DIDN’T KILL JENNIFER.” Arnold stands abruptly, the sudden movement causing Malcolm to flinch back, expecting to need to get away. But Arnold doesn’t make any moves towards violence, his fists aren’t even clenched despite the obvious tightness in his breathing or twitching facial features that indicate a deeply held sense of rage. 

Malcolm stares in shock as the guards don’t even react, though some of the other guests in the room jerk a bit. His jaw drops even further when the man turns and stalks off, also without movement from the guards. He’s been here four years and has, apparently, never shown any inclination towards violence if their lack of reactions are anything to go by. 

He hasn’t quite recovered from his shock, nor has his pulse returned to normal, when Arnold pauses mid stride. Slowly, the man turns and walks back towards the table where he stands, a mountain of a man, staring down at Malcolm with a trembling chin. “I wish I could help, Mr. Bright. But I didn’t kill Jennifer. I loved her. She was the only one who understood me, who could ever love me or put up with me. I didn’t... Good luck finding Macy.”

Good. Now Malcolm’s even more sure he’s telling the truth.

So he smiles, and gives him a simple nod.

“I believe you.”

* * *

  
  


It’s almost two hours before he finally makes it to his next destination. It’s late in the afternoon by then and the rain hasn’t stopped. He gets out at the apartment where Jennifer had lived, but instead of going inside makes a point to walk the route Arnold had insisted he took whenever he needed to ‘cool off’ as he had said repeatedly in his initial statements. It’s a decent walk, about an hour at a bit of a clip and would take a lot longer for someone walking for meditation. There are a few small gardens and a park along the path where one could rest, relax, throw bread at ducks… Whatever people do to relax in a park anyway. As he makes the return trip he takes several short cuts that cut the time down by half and he notes as many details as he can, any cameras or security, people keeping an eye out or nosy neighbors. Unfortunately, it’s not the greatest part of town and there isn’t much in the way of actual security around here. The traffic cameras on the stop lights are even all in such a way there’s whole swaths of sidewalk that aren’t picked up by them - not that that is their purpose anyway. 

Sometime during his journey, Gil’s name pops up on his phone but he sends him straight to voicemail. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say to him. 

At the apartment building, an old, four floor walk up that sits next to a train line, however, there is a single camera almost hidden in the archway staring out at the walkway in front. Based on the angle it’s the one that captured Jones returning to the building that night. He gives it a once over then shakes out his umbrella and rings the buzzer for 4C.

When he makes it up stairs to a waiting Kate Andrews he’s surprised to find the interior of the apartment hasn’t changed at all from the photos in the file. The furniture is all exactly in the same place, even the same photos are all hanging on the wall.

“Hi, Kate, right?” he gives her an easy smile, a genuine one.

Kate is wearing pj pants and an oversized shirt despite it being mid afternoon. Her black hair is shaved short on one side and kind of messily flopped over the rest towards her chin. “Yeah. You said you were with the police?”

“Sort of. I’m a consultant. Malcolm Bright. I uh, I’m sorry to have to bring this up but Arnold Jones’ final appeal is coming up soon and I’m trying to make sure we’ve really looked at everything. That’s why I’m here actually, fresh pair of eyes.”

She looks down at the ground, frowning when he mentions Arnold. When he’s done speaking, she lets out a sigh, nods, and gestures into the apartment. 

As they walk in, a train - the el-line he’d noticed on the way in - rattles by just outside the window. The building barely shakes but the electricity flickers.

“Does that happen often?”

“Every time.” 

It’s not a large apartment, a living, kitchen, and dining space all sharing the same room with three doors off to one wall - two bedrooms and a bathroom. 

“I’m not sure what else to say about it all that I didn’t say the first time, to be honest.” She settles in to the far side of her couch and closes a laptop that she balances precariously on an over crowded coffee table. Actually, everything in the space is cluttered and looking like one good wind would knock it all to the ground. 

_ That  _ is different from the pictures.

“I did read all the reports and the interviews, Ms. Andrews. But since you never actually went down to the station I don’t have actual transcripts of those conversations. Just what the officers interpreted from your statements. This is a crucial time so I wanted to come down and get things in your own words, if that’s okay?”

“Well, they did like, ask me at court?”

He remembers those transcripts. They were terrible.

“Do you really feel they did a thorough job of that? Got your real impression of Arnold?”

At that question Kate lifts her chin, her brows raised with a light in her eyes almost like hope. “No! No they didn’t.”

“Tell me about them.”

So she talks.

She starts at the beginning, that she and Jennifer were best friends growing up, giving him little anecdotes here and there. That Jennifer had lived in this building on the first floor before she moved up here to live with Kate after Kate’s mother died. They met Arnold in college, freshman year. He was a bit older, but in most of their classes as he had done a stint in the military to help pay for his education. For several years they were all just friends. Close, in each others pockets constantly, with a few other people who orbited in and out over time. She talks about those years at length, with a melancholy smile on her face. After graduation, Jennifer and Arnold had started dating and nothing, surprisingly, changed at all. When Malcolm asks about Arnold’s anger problems Kate actually looks frustrated.

“He had anger issues from his depression, but he wasn’t violent. He wasn’t even verbally abusive.” 

“How can you be sure? Were you with them all the time?”

Kate laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Almost. Every single time one of our nosy neighbors called the cops on him I was here. I exist primarily in this apartment and have even before she died. I hardly ever leave and was only gone that week because of a work conference. So yes, I’m sure. He hardly ever yelled  _ at  _ Jennifer. They fought once in a blue moon, sure. Usually he’d get frustrated, mad at himself over something and his temper was almost always about himself, something he’d done or thought he had done wrong. Most of the time he was able to recognize it and step away, go for a walk or something. But he’d always listen to Jennifer if she told him he needed to step outside. She really got him, you know?”

Malcolm leans forward, elbows on his knees, and studies Kate Andrews. She’s curled up, feet tucked under a blanket that had been tossed haphazardly on the couch. Her shoulders are slumped forward while she picks at the edge of her shirt that looks like it’s at least a decade old and she won’t maintain eye contact.

She’s sad, without a hint of anger.

“You don’t think he did it.”

The hint of a disbelieving smile tells him maybe no one of any authority has ever actually asked her that question.

“Mr. Bright. I have seen Arnold Jones get violent once in the entire time I’ve known him, and that was to throw my abusive ex out on his ass after he caught him pushing me around. I  _ know  _ he didn’t do this. He couldn't have.”

Malcolm’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he doesn’t even bother looking at who’s calling, just flicks it off.

“I understand completely.” He leans a little further and gives her a reassuring smile. “I’m trying to understand though, how do you explain the video of him coming back, even though he says that wasn’t him? Do you believe him?”

“I believe him but… I really don’t know.” She doesn’t look away and Malcolm sighs. “I’m sorry.” 

Though he was hoping she might have some idea about the discrepancy, it wasn’t a huge hope. 

Malcolm stays with her another half hour or so, asking some questions he already knew the answers to and some he didn’t. None of her answers are very helpful, unfortunately. They were a fairly isolated group of friends for the most part, especially after college had ended, and just as noted in the report, she doesn’t know anyone who didn’t like Jennifer enough to be a stronger suspect than the boyfriend. Kate obviously misses both of her old friends dearly and hasn’t ever bothered looking for a replacement roommate. He wonders what she’s done with the old bedroom, but doesn’t ask.

After he leaves her apartment Malcolm makes his way down the hall and the stairs slowly, putting his thoughts in order. For a brief moment on his way here he had wondered if Kate would be high on his suspect list, maybe out of jealousy or with a hidden streak of violence herself. But he hadn’t seen anything like that in the way she held herself. So he’s still without a suspect, just one innocent man.

As he’s descending the stairs Malcolm catches a woman on the floor below trying to discreetly keep an eye on him while she makes it look like she’s fiddling with her keys. She has a long, bright red wool coat on and a black leather bag clutched under her arm and an umbrella hooked over it. Malcolm pretends not to notice her at first, lets her think she’s gotten away with her subtle snooping. 

“Excuse me.” Malcolm calls out to her once he’s on the third floor landing. The woman turns, her perfectly painted lips breaking into a cautious smile. He notes that her coat is designer, but years old and faded in places. Her makeup is flawless, so much so that even her winged eyeliner is exactly the same on both sides, and the shock of silver at her left temple is the only thing that sticks out to him in her slicked back, black bun.

“Yes?”

Malcolm runs through the list of statements that had been in the file and quickly has a pretty good idea who he is talking to.

“I’m assuming you live in this apartment since you’re opening it with keys and all. Have you lived here long?” 

“All my life.” She assures him, giving him a once over with one eyebrow lifting in a hint of a smirk. “I’m assuming you  _ don’t  _ live here given your attire and if you’re here to scope out the place to buy I’m afraid Mr. Tanner has a few good years in him yet and he’s not going anywhere. Not that this piece of property is worth anything, mind you.” 

“I’m uh…” Malcolm huffs out a quick laugh. “I’m not in real estate. Ms?” 

“Sutton. Bailey Sutton. And you are?”

“My name is Malcolm Bright. I’m working with NYPD, trying to just clear up a few details in the death of Jennifer Stephenson before Mr. Jones’ case goes to appeal.” It’s his story and he might as well stick to it. As soon as he says Jennifer’s name, however, he notes how her hand clenches on the handle of her oversized bag.

“I really don’t know how much more I could tell you that I didn’t tell the officers the first time around.” 

“You’d be surprised.” He assures her. “You’ve lived here your whole life so you must know everyone in the building well?”

At that she rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

Bailey looks down the stairs behind Malcolm, then flicks her gaze up to the ceiling before licking her lips and taking a deep breath. “Do you have neighbors, Mr. Bright?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I live alone in a big empty building.”

“Must be nice, no loud music at all hours, stomping, shouting, twenty-somethings crashing into your front door drunk at two am because they thought they’d made it to the fourth floor. David, below me, works at a fish market. He brings things home on Mondays and stinks up the whole building. Misty in 2B works nights at the transit authority. When she started that job the entire building heard about her change in schedule every time someone woke her up. I’d probably do the same, mind you, but it was still an adjustment. Skyler is always renting out their spare room to  _ musicians.  _ I could go on.”

Malcolm has to bite back a laugh at how much this woman reminds him of his mother. Her tone of voice isn’t as purposely haughty as Jessica’s can get, but the indignation that other people should ever be a public nuisance is right on target. “No, that’s quite alright. Thank you. I do have a couple of other questions for you though?” When she nods, he continues. “Do you know if anyone in the building ever worked for Largo Engineering?” It’s obvious she knows everyone’s business so even though it’s not officially listed on anyone’s work history records, she seems to be the most likely to know if someone was working for cash or something under the table. 

Bailey’s brows shoot upwards for half a second and she recovers just as fast, face back to a pleasant sense of neutrality. She recognizes that name. 

But she lies.

“I have no idea. Never heard of it.” In an about face to her willingness to gossip mere moments ago, the older woman rattles her keys and backs up towards her door. “I am sorry, but I have got some work I need to get to. I’m sure you know how to get in touch with me if you need anything else.”

Before Malcolm can get in a proper protest, she has disappeared behind her front door, nearly slamming it in his face.

_ Interesting. _

As before he’d been interrupted, Malcolm takes his time leaving. He tries to note anything unusual, out of the ordinary or seemingly out of place in the building. But it’s so bland that there’s almost literally  _ nothing  _ to look at. The paint on the walls is faded and chipped in places. The floor in the hall and on the stairs is streaked with well worn foot paths that people take day in and day out. In the front entry way he takes another look at the camera that faces out to the side walk. It’s up too high to get a really good look at it but nothing seems out of place. 

He needs to review the tapes. Closely. 

But that means he has to talk to Gil.

Speaking of…

The second Malcolm looks away from the camera and goes to open his umbrella he freezes in his tracks. 

At the end of the walk way, idling in the pouring rain right at the curb is a black, 1967 Pontiac LeMans. 

“Oh, I am so fucked.”


	6. heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is still a thing! Sorry for the long wait I got distracted by... _other prodigal son trash_. But I'm actively working on it again so, yay!
> 
> Special thanks to the fabulous [Pond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa) for the awesome beta work.

_ heat / hit / to excite emotionally; inflame or rouse with passion _

Without a single word shared between them, Malcolm slips into the passenger seat of the black Pontiac. Gil puts the car in drive, and they head off. 

It’s still pouring buckets around them. That, coupled with the late hour, makes visibility difficult yet Gil maintains a steady pace through town. Both hands are on the wheel, gripped tight, his jaw occasionally clenching in obvious pent up frustration. At a few of the red lights they stop at it almost looks as if he may actually say something, even takes a deep breath once. But every time he just shakes it away. Halfway to Gil’s house, and it becomes obvious that’s where they’re headed about five minutes in, Malcolm makes an attempt at breaking the six feet of ice between them.

“So… how’d you find me?”

He’s pretty sure the only reason he doesn’t get a death glare from his friend is because he’s currently driving forty-five miles an hour in pouring down rain. 

There’s more than just an edge of anger in his voice when he answers. There’s hurt and fire of something far deeper. “I found you, because I know you. Because I’ve known you for twenty years. And in twenty years, you have  _ never _ learned to listen.” 

Well, that should be a given at this point but like hell he’s going to point that out. It isn’t so much that he doesn’t listen, it’s that he has a tendency to do what he knows he needs to do to get shit done. And if sometimes that goes against other people’s wishes it isn’t exactly his fault, is it? Okay, choosing to ignore things people tell him to do or not do without making his case is  _ technically _ his problem, but not one he tends to examine too closely. 

“You had someone keeping an eye on Jones’ visitors, didn’t you.”

“You’re damn right I did, the second I knew you were cleared to work. And I knew you’d wind up at the apartment building sooner or later. So when you didn’t answer your damn phone…” He presses his lips tightly together and twists his hands around the wheel as he trails off and doesn’t say anything more. It becomes glaringly apparent that he is not going to say anything else for the moment. His attention is entirely on the road once more and Malcolm can hear how hard he’s breathing, trying not to let go and tear into him. 

Next time, Malcolm tells himself, he’ll send a text when he’s ignoring calls. Something simple like ‘can’t talk, call back soon’. He really doesn’t want to see that fear in Gil anymore.

The rest of the ride is filled with the heavy stretch of silence between them and the roar of the rain around them. It’s a painful reflection of everything they haven’t said yet, which is so damned much.

Fifteen minutes later, however, Gil lets it all go.

Once they’re both inside the front door of Gil’s house he slams it shut, shucking his rain soaked coat right there in the hall and storming off around Malcolm towards his office. Malcolm takes a deep breath, hangs his own coat and umbrella then Gil’s, and turns to face the music.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Malcolm?”

Gil downs a finger of scotch and slams the tumbler down almost hard enough to crack before filling it again. 

“I’m solving a murder!” 

“That murder has already been solved. He went to court. He was found guilty and sent to jail.” Gil abandons his glass to come stand right in front of Malcolm, a tint of red on his cheeks from his anger. “Case. Closed.”

“No.” Malcolm shakes his head, holding his ground. “No! Not case closed. Case still wide fucking open. The wrong man is in jail for this. I know it.” He runs his hands through his wet hair, giving it a frustrated tug before sighing. “I know it. If you’ll let me prove it I’ve already -”

“You can’t just go around opening up old cases on a whim!” He cuts him off. “On a hunch?” Gil lets out an incredulous laugh and shakes his head. “You know, people have been solving crimes a long time before you came along.”

“And I’m sure they’ll continue when I’m gone.” Malcolm finishes for him with no small amount of sarcasm. “I am  _ right  _ about this, Gil.” He expands and clenches his fist a few times to help control the tremor that’s starting up, then decides to change tactics. “I know you trust me or you wouldn’t keep bringing me back. Why are you so defensive about this? It wasn’t even your case!”

“No.” He holds out his finger to point at Malcolm, hovering close to his face before flinching back, pursing his lips with a deep breath. “But I signed off on it. I reviewed every piece of evidence, every statement, every transcript. Detective Davenport didn’t overlook anything.”

Suddenly his insistence not to rock the boat makes a lot more sense. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s being a stubborn ass about it and Malcolm doesn’t hesitate for a second.

“Except the profile!”

“Jesus!” Gil throws his hands in the air and turns back towards his desk, leaning forward with his hands on the surface. Malcolm steps closer, just to the side. “The man had a history of domestic disturbance calls against him.”

“Calls. No charges.”

“He— you met him today, right?” Gil straightens and turns back towards Malcolm. The change has them nearly chest to chest, close enough Malcolm has to look up to meet his hard gaze. “He’s an angry man.”

“Yes! Angry, but not violent. Today, at the prison, I goaded him on. Hard and fast. He got angry, but not violent. Not even any signs of wanting to be violent. People in jail in this country for violent crimes don’t get LESS violent over time.”

“And what about the video, hm?” It feels as if he steps impossibly closer. “The argument that their neighbors all heard? His skin was under her nails, Malcolm! Fresh!”

Malcolm can’t help but laugh and roll his eyes at that. “So they had sex!” 

“In the middle of a fight?”

“Absolutely!” He smirks. “Adrenaline already coursing through the veins, pulses racing, energy high, staring at… at uh,” Malcolm’s grin vanishes and he licks his lips, noticing not for the first time how close they are, how he can’t look away and Gil’s own eyes keep flicking downward. “Throw in some really… really out there sexual tension and,” A slight tip of his weight towards his toes would close the distance between them. He could lean in and let himself fall forward just enough, just a touch, just far enough so he can taste Gil’s breath on his lips. “Bang.”

Though absolutely nothing changes in Gil’s stance,  _ everything  _ is suddenly different. 

“Bang?” Gil’s voice is almost incredulous, and Malcolm would even call it that if it weren’t teetering on the edge of desperation.

Shocking Malcolm to stillness, Gil is the one who makes a move. His kiss is harsh and insistent, a bruising hand at Malcolm’s hip and the other suddenly twisted in his hair. It only takes Malcolm half a second to get with the program and throw his arms around the older man, pulling their bodies flush, opening up for him. He parts his lips and invites GIl in—an invitation Gil accepts like he’s starving for it. Malcolm loses himself in the kiss, in the embrace, barely notices as Gil guides him backwards, ignores the sharp press of a bookshelf into his back in favor of the warmth of Gil’s tongue, the rasp of his beard against stubble. 

A spike of arousal sparks through his already slowly overheating body when there’s a harsh tug in his hair, pulling him to tilt his head, to give access to Gil’s mouth as he kisses down his chin and neck. 

“You…” Gil’s breath is deliciously warm against Malcolm’s skin. “Drive me crazy.”

“In good ways I hope?” He tugs at Gil’s sweater from where his hands are fisted in the soft fabric at the older man’s back, hoping he’ll get the message for where Malcolm is dying to take this.

“In  _ every  _ way.” Gil assures him, voice rough and needy.

He starts working at Malcolm’s shirt buttons, fingers fumbling in his rush while Malcolm makes a half-hearted attempt to help him. He wants to be touched, he wants to feel the heat of skin, the rough calluses of Gil’s hands on his body. He needs it. The second his shirt is hanging open, Gil’s mouth is back on Malcolm’s and his hands are everywhere, gliding along his side, along his back and up the curve of his spine. Energy rushes along Malcolm's skin, chasing a shiver through his entire body. 

They kiss until they’re breathless, until Malcolm’s head is swimming and fuzzy and he isn’t sure he’d be able to see straight if he opened his eyes. 

He rocks his hips forward, earning a deep growl from Gil and the sharp sting of teeth on his bottom lip.

Malcolm’s brain short circuits for a second when Gil gets a firm grip on his ass, prompting him to lift up on his toes, into Gil’s arms, to get held and pressed back against the solid wood shelves until he’s hanging on with his legs wrapped around Gil’s hips. Their cocks are pressed together, separated by far too much fabric. But it's a sweet addition of pressure that makes Malcolm’s toes curl. 

“Gil,” he breathes out into their kiss. He needs more, he needs so much more.

“Tell me what you want.”

Malcolm wants  _ everything. _

“I want your cock,” he manages. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Gil’s answering kiss nearly devours Malcolm and he is  _ living  _ for it. Every sensation, every slide of lips together, tangle of tongues and sharp sting of teeth is more than he’s ever dreamed of, better than he’d ever imagined. Because it’s real. Because Gil wants him just as much as he wants Gil.

When Gil pauses to catch his breath, chest rising and falling in heavy motions, Malcolm stares into his eyes, sees the reflection of his own need there. “Upstairs,” the older man mutters before ducking back in to continue kissing him.

Despite his words, neither of them make to move away for a long time, lost in the kiss, in the way they rock slowly together.

Eventually, a desperate whine escapes Malcolm’s throat and Gil steps back just enough to let him down, never removing his hands, touching him, holding him.

The distance between where they began and Gil’s bedroom feels like miles. They start and stop so many times, shedding layers here and there, Gil pressing him against the wall just at the base of the stairs, bare chest to bare chest for the first time with a deep, slick drag of teeth along the tendon in Malcolm’s neck, stopping to tease just below his ear. 

Shoes get lost somewhere between there and the landing, and by the time Malcolm’s back hits the soft cushion of Gil’s bed his entire world is a blur of intensity and heat. Their hands fumble with belt buckles and zippers, trading brief kisses and exploring touches. Gil’s hands light a fire under his skin with how desperately he touches him, how posessive. There’s no hesitation in him, no holding back. As soon as Malcolm’s cock is free, Gil has a hand wrapped around him, capturing his gasp with a smirk and a teasing kiss. 

Malcolm arches off the bed, dizzy and overwhelmed but aching for more. 

“Fuck, you look better than I ever imagined,” Gil mutters against his lips. He watches Malcolm, an intensity in his gaze Malcolm hadn’t expected, wants to memorize and see over and over again. Gil nips and sucks along Malcolm’s skin, down to his clavicle, tongue a ghost of a touch. “You taste so good, baby.” Those words are whispered right into his skin, a caress against his neck, slip-sliding along his body and sending a shiver right down his spine.

Gil notices. Malcolm can feel another smirk against his shoulder before Gil bites down again. “You like it when I call you baby?” 

He  _ loves  _ it. He wants Gil to only call him that for the rest of their lives. “I’d like it a lot more if you’d fuck me,” Malcolm says instead, getting his own hand on Gil’s cock, closing his eyes in delight at the length and curve of it. 

The next bite to his shoulder is sharper, deeper. Malcolm circles his thumb just under the head, smirking at the shake in Gil’s arms. “Next time,” Gil manages through a rough breath, “Next time I’m going to take you apart so fucking slowly.” He kisses Malcolm’s shoulder. “Bit by bit.” His neck. “Piece by piece.” His jaw. “Until you’re begging me to fuck you.” 

_ Next time.  _

To hide just how much he’s affected by those two little words, Malcolm curls his fingers at the back of Gil’s neck to pull him into a filthy kiss. Gil sinks into it, everything stilling between them while he devours Malcolm in a deep, possessive kiss. 

When Gil finally pulls away to dig into his nightstand Malcolm makes a desperate attempt to catch his breath while kicking off the last of their clothes. It’s still hard to believe he’s here, they’re here, together. It’s surreal in all the best ways and he almost feels like he’s floating with it, wants to pinch himself to know it's not a dream but, at the same time, scared to. So many times he’s dreamed of this, ached for it, imagined what Gil would taste like, how he would feel.

A dip in the bed brings him back to the present, to the man of his dreams—literally—parting Malcolm’s legs to kneel between them and come in close to kiss up along his chest with a bottle in hand. 

“I uh,” Gil clears his throat. “I don’t have any condoms. But I can still—”

“I don’t care.” Malcolm doesn’t even hesitate, just reaches out for Gil, desperate for his kiss again.

“What?” Gil pulls back and stares him down for a moment, brows drawn before raising in unmistakable interest.

“I need you, Gil.” He rocks his hips up, just barely making contact with Gil’s body to prove his point. “And I’m good if you’re good I just, I want you so much, please.” Malcolm knows what he sounds like, how desperate he comes across. 

But the thought seems to take Gil’s breath away if the heavy rise and fall of his chest is any indication. “Are you sure?”

“With you? Absolutely.”

_ Finally,  _ Gil kisses him again. There’s a tenderness to it that’s been hidden by their desperation so far. But it doesn’t last, the slow slide of lips and tongue quickly replaced by teeth and groans of pleasure that are only broken by a gasp when Malcolm feels a slick finger tease at his entrance. 

“Gonna open up for me, baby?” 

Malcolm breaks down in a high-pitched whine when Gil slips his finger in easily. Not at the intrusion but at Gil’s words, at the deep timbre of his voice as it reverberates through his own chest. If Gil is going to talk like that, Malcolm isn’t going to last.

But he’s going to have a hell of a good time.

“Just like that.” He fucks into him once or twice before adding a second finger, hovering just over Malcolm, sharing deep, heavy, sweet breaths as he watches Malcolm’s face. The stretch starts to ignite Malcolm’s body and he presses down against Gil’s hand, rocks his hips to meet his thrusts while relishing in the sensations pouring over him. “Fuck you look so good like this. Gonna look even better on my cock.”

“Jesus Christ, just fuck me already. Please.”

Gil laughs against Malcolm’s neck, bites at the tendon there and gently sucks a mark. When he adds a third finger, Malcolm gasps.

“Oh, is that what you’re after?” Gil teases between bites and soft, gentle kisses. “I had no idea.”

He pulls his fingers free of Malcolm’s body then rocks forward, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Gil’s hips. For a moment, Gil kisses him again while he slicks up his cock. When he rubs against Malcolm’s hole, the blunt, thick head of his dick catching on his rim, Malcolm curls his hips up further, tries to hold himself wider, encouraging. He’s got one fist in Gil’s hair while gripping the older man’s arm for dear life.

With a strong, forceful hand at Malcolm’s hip, Gil stills him then slowly guides himself forward. He’s not nearly stretched enough to take him easily, but it still sends shocks of pleasure chasing the curl of pain through every inch of his skin. Nerves light up one after another through Malcolm’s body and it’s better than he could have ever dreamed of. And he’d dreamed so much, for so fucking long. 

“Fuck, baby you’re so god damned tight,” Gil groans, beginning to slowly rock his hips, sinking a little further into Malcolm’s body each time. 

Maybe it’s the way Gil kisses him, or how long Malcolm has wanted this, or maybe Gil really is just as thick as he’d always imagined, but Malcolm can’t ever remember feeling this exhilarated as someone splits him open. When Gil finally,  _ finally,  _ bottoms out he stills with his head dropped against Malcolm’s shoulder, breathing heavily. They both take a moment to catch their breath. It’s nearly overwhelming how full he feels and Malcolm has to close his eyes and focus on trying to relax. He wants this to be good for both of them, wants it to be amazing. 

“Gil,” he whispers, desperate to keep his voice steady and calm. “Gil you feel fucking incredible.” Gil slowly moves, shifting his face against Malcolm’s skin in a slow circle so that the soft hair of his beard tickles at the over sensitive flesh of Malcolm’s neck. Then he hums and pulls his hips back just a touch before rocking forward in a slow, shallow thrust. 

It sends sparks of lighting through Malcolm’s body, just the soft push and pull of his walls from Gil’s cock sliding against them enough to take his breath away. 

Without a word, Gil grabs one of Malcolm’s legs and curls it over his own elbow, holding him tight while planting his other hand next to Malcolm’s head for support. Like this, he can sink even deeper and show off just how hard and deep he can go with another roll of his hips that makes Malcolm’s eyes flutter closed and his head tilt back with a quick gasp for air. 

Malcolm slides both hands up Gil’s chest, teasing at his nipples briefly before locking his arms around the older man’s neck and tugging him in for a deep, sloppy kiss.

“Fuck me like you mean it,” he begs into the kiss.

Gil starts to move in earnest, snapping a little harder, pulling out a little more each time until he’s fucking into Malcolm at a quick, steady pace. Every move feels deliberate, every shift in their bodies, every change in angle. 

It doesn’t take long until Malcolm is close, right there on the edge and feeling the tension all the way down in his bones. He tries to get a hand between them to say something, anything, but all he can get past the white noise in his head is desperate whines for more, and barely articulated pleas. A touch, anything on his cock will send him over, he’s aching to come so much.

“Malcolm… Christ, I’m gonna come. I can’t…”

“Don’t stop, please, Gil.” He tugs the older man into a deep kiss, rolling his hips to meet him thrust for thrust until his breathing goes as erratic as the movements of his body, until Gil can no longer kiss him, but trembles above him, lips ghosting against Malcolm’s as he falls completely apart. 

The moment he stills, buried deep and unloading inside of Malcolm’s body he  _ finally _ gets a hand wrapped around Malcolm’s aching cock and strokes with a quick, tight grip. “You feel so amazing, baby. So fucking perfect.”

“Oh, god. Gil!” Malcolm arches and comes, body tensing and shaking violently. Gil pumps him through it, watching with his mouth hanging open and eyes glazed over, soft gasps filling the otherwise silent air from the way Malcolm’s muscles clench tight around his overstimulated cock. 

When they’re both spent and boneless, Gil is careful to keep himself propped on one arm so he doesn’t put his entire weight on Malcolm while he guides the younger man’s bent leg to relax around his hips. Then, he kisses Malcolm. 

It’s slow and sweet, tender in ways that nothing else had been so far this evening. There’s a contrast to it from the intensity of their lovemaking that settles something in Malcolm’s chest. He has a feeling it’s one hundred percent intentional. With every slide of Gil’s tongue and lips against Malcolm’s there is a caress of his free hand to go with it, his soft touch a balm against overheated skin. 

Despite how soothing it is, it draws out the light-headed, blissful feeling his orgasm had left him with until he feels like he’s almost floating. When Gil shifts and slips slowly from his body, Malcolm barely notices, too caught up in chasing the feeling Gil’s kiss has left him with. Once he’s gone though, Malcolm whines a little at the feeling of emptiness, at the loss. 

Eventually, Gil finally rolls away, landing on his back with a huff. 

Malcolm chases him though, turning onto his side so they’re still pressed intimately together. He smiles when Gil grabs his hand and pulls it up to press gentle kisses to Malcolm’s knuckles. 

“Can you keep your digging quiet?” Gil asks out of nowhere, staring at Malcolm’s fingers. 

Malcolm sighs and grips lightly at Gil’s jaw to tilt him up, to force him to make eye contact. “I told Jones I was working another case and Kate Andrews I was doing a once-over to prep for his final appeal,” he assures Gil. 

But Gil just sighs and shakes his head. “That’s not a yes.” He goes quiet and stares Malcolm down for several long, silent moments. There’s an intensity to his gaze, like he’s searching for something. Eventually, Gil deflates. “You’re convinced he didn’t do it.”

“Completely.”

“You were right.” When Malcolm raises an eyebrow in question, not sure he’s got the brain power to remember every detail of their earlier argument at this moment, Gil smiles. “I do trust you.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath and dredges up what he can recall of their heated conversation that had led to this moment. “And I’m not trying to undermine you. I just want to make sure the right person is held accountable.”

Silence stretches between them while Malcolm watches Gil visibly think that over, his eyes seeming to search the ceiling as if the answer is etched there somewhere. Eventually though, he nods.

“Does this mean all I have to do to get my way from now on is get naked?” Malcolm asks with a smirk and a hand teasing at Gil’s chest in light caresses. 

“Try it at the station and see what happens,” Gil warns. “As a matter of fact, I may need the caveat that anything I agree to while you’re naked is not contractually binding.”

“Mmm. I am definitely going to find a way to exploit that.”

Gil’s laughter shakes his entire body and Malcolm sinks into the feeling, laying his head on Gil’s shoulder and mouthing soft kisses against his skin until they’re both still, arms wrapped around warm bodies. It’s quiet, and peaceful. There’s a comfort in their closeness that Malcolm has never found with anyone the first time they’ve slept together. And he knows that’s because of their past, how much he trusts Gil. 

But that also means he can’t take any chances. 

With a heavy sigh, Malcolm buries his face in the crook of Gil’s neck, words coming out muffled. “I, um. I can’t stay.” Beneath Malcolm’s arms, Gil tenses. “I don’t have to leave right this second but…” He doesn’t want to go. But he can not make the same mistakes he’s made in the past—thinking he could handle it, could handle himself. He clearly can’t, and he refuses to put Gil through that. 

Gil runs his fingers through Malcolm’s hair and kisses his temple. “You got somewhere more important to be, kid?”

“God, no.” Malcolm pops his head up and makes sure to catch Gil’s gaze, to make sure he can see how sincerely he wishes he didn’t have to do this. “Nowhere else I want to be either, I promise. But, the last time I fell asleep next to someone I tried to stab them during a night terror. She never spoke to me again. I can’t chance any of that with you.”

There’s nothing but warmth in Gil’s eyes as he nods, guiding Malcolm in for a light, reassuring kiss. “Alright. Let's get cleaned up then head downstairs. I’ll make some coffee while we go over your plans then I’ll take you home. Sound good?”

Malcolm closes his eyes in a slow blink, relieved that Gil understands, and that he’s going to let Malcolm close this case. 

That there’s going to be a  _ next time. _

“Sounds great.”


End file.
